3: Taken
by windwraith
Summary: Time is running out. Ramon is abducted by the dark order and Siroc must confront his worst fears to save him. This story gets a bit intense, but does shed some light on the Spanish poets past, and Siroc's as well. Part Three of the YB 'Unleashed Saga'
1. Chapter 1: Missing

('Tis a Disclaimer)

Through the mists of time Dumas dreams do inspire

Master of whit and adventure … willing hearts still do admire.

Hungry Minds truth desiring

Weaving words without selfishness miring

Sound accolades do I aspire … no other recompense I do require.

PAX…I continue within your vein.

In cyberspace canceled shows will still reign.

-+-

Ramon is abducted by the Dark Order; I must warn you this story is going to get a bit intense. This is a thread story where various things were going on with various people in various place where what happened with one group directly or indirectly effects the others...till things resolve themselves at the end. I also wanted to shed some light on Ramon's past. I hope you like it.

**#1 Serious about Siroc, #2 Crisis Point  
Now the third story in the series by Vigilanti   
--TAKEN --  
**

**Chapter 2: Lost:**

**Chapter 1: Missing**

France breathed a sigh of relief. The Revolution of 1648, now known as the Fronde, was finished…the treaty of Westphalia freed Prince le Condé's army to intervene in the uprising of Paris, besieging the capital. Little blood had been shed and the court was free to return from Rueil where they had fled the conflict. With them came young Louis XIV and his ill-starred brother, Philippe.

Queen Anne was overjoyed to have both boys at her side at last, but publicly she downplayed her emotion, making it seem that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. All in all, very little was said about the king's mysterious disappearance and prolonged absence. Captain Duval had stepped in to forestall any consternation during the interim, providing assurance that the young king was in good hands and had in fact been spirited away as a matter of state security prior to the uprising. As a result, returning the young king and Prince Philippe, to their mother, the Queen Regent, went much smoother than would have been the case had Duval not intervened on behalf of his men.

Still, Charles de Batz d'Artagnan was sore vexed that the young musketeers (and especially his son) had willingly left him out of the loop when it came to the young king's safety. When Privates, Del la Cruz, le Pont, Siroc, and d'Artagnan returned to the capital, the illustrious captain of the queen's guard had them summoned to his office. The senior d'Artagnan could not, in good faith, release them to return to their duties in the garrison without a thorough dressing down for presuming to remove the king from the palace precinct without first notifying him of the situation.

D'Artagnan, the younger, stood silently alongside his companions, recognizing that it was Captain de Batz and NOT his father that rebuked them. The wall of secrets and pain sprang up all too easily, dividing father and son once more. The young musketeer and his legendary sire had never had the best of relationships. Young Dart had thought he had finally come to terms with the fact that his father's duties to the crown came before his commitment to his family. Their relationship even improved since Dart became a musketeer himself. Then, on his latest adventure, the legend's son learned his illustrious Sire's commitment to the Queen was more than simply duty. There was a romance involved. D'Artagnan the younger was left feeling abandoned and lied to all over again. Any chance of rectifying the relationship would have to wait till a more opportune moment, when both men were ready to hear what the other had to say. For a time, it seemed life had settled back to normalcy.

And so it begins

The leather apron clad inventor sorted through the jumble concealed in the drawer under the astrolabe. Siroc knew the worn case that held his prisms and magnifying lenses had been here several days ago. No luck, the lenses were nowhere to be found.

One would think the contentious inventor would have learned to be more careful where he put such things. Ramón borrowed a lens several weeks earlier with disastrous effect: setting a pile of dung in the courtyard ablaze. Despite his knack for getting in trouble Ramón was a capable soldier. After the incident in the courtyard Captain Duval decided to have the Spaniard lead a patrol of green recruits along the north road to Picardy. It was not exactly a punishment. Still, Captain Duval suspected Ramón would likely have a rough time of it. His charges were wastrels, one-and-all, accustomed to the privilege of their upper-class families and not yet accustomed to the discipline of the corps.

Captain Duval suggested to Siroc that now, with the worst of the potential trouble-makers away from the garrison, would be a good time to find a better hiding place for his newest acquisition, a fine convex lens, where it could not inadvertently cause more mischief. The difficulty arose when the curious poet and his young charges were due back in a matter of days and Siroc still could not find where he left the lens case last time.

The young blond could close his eyes and see the tooled leather case. He could envision the lenses it contained, ground smooth of even the slightest imperfection. The inventor's supple mind had no difficulty recalling various uses he imagined for each lens. Why could he not remember where he had hidden that blasted case! Siroc reached up to search a box of test tubes, pipettes, flasks, and clamps of various shapes and sizes…

An instant later young d'Artagnan and Jacques le Pont, drawn by a horrendous crash, burst through the laboratory door to find their friend kneeling on the floor surrounded by shattered glassware.

"Are you all right?" Jacques asked. "You look quite pale."

"I…I…will be." Siroc said placing a trembling hand to his brow. "Jacques could you please… would you mind…." The blond faltered, barely able to think past the pain.

"Willow-bark tea lots of it—of course Siroc right away." She hurriedly found the kettle and box of herbs that usually gave him some measure of relief.

D'Artagnan swept the broken glass into a receptacle Siroc kept for that purpose and gently helped the stricken inventor to the nearby settee. "Is it just me, or are those headaches of yours getting more severe?"

"More persistent… not more severe," The inventor mumbled only half listening; the pain did not permit him to do more than that. He winced and tried to press his thumbs into his throbbing temples.

"You really ought to go to the infirmary and see if Philip Corman can help. He really IS a fine healer. If you believe the stories, he assisted Medic Julian when he brought my father back from the dead." The Gascon tried to convince his friend. "Besides, he gives sweets if you behave…lollipops he calls them."

"There is nothing to be done. It will pass… in time." Siroc explained quietly. The reserved scientist knew the cause of his pain was not one any physician, no matter how skilled, could help with. The truth was, his former Master demanded his presence. Eventually it would become apparent he was not coming. Then the painful calls would cease… or so the former slave hoped. In the meantime, such things must be endured. Siroc sipped the tea slowly… relishing the soothing warmth, closed his eyes and sighed. The pain dulled but it did not fade altogether. "I'm all right now." He whispered, "Thank you."

"If you were 'all right' we wouldn't find you periodically doubled over in pain." d'Artagnan frowned "This is… what… the third time this month?"

"We are worried about you Siroc." Jacques explained, "I don't think you should be alone tonight."

Truth-be-told, the inventor WAS shaken. This… attack had been more… sudden than the others. Always before, the call had come in midmorning when the Master was going over the reports from his spy network and something came up which might require his particular skills. Siroc could not imagine what would necessitate a call now… hours after dusk. If this kept up, he was not sure how long he could fight the urge to return, still he could not explain his fears to his friends, the risk of loosing them over it was just too great.

Siroc bit his lip. "You may be right." He conceded finally…which only served to make the others worry more. It was quite unlike the independent… and profoundly private inventor to admit that: "If it wouldn't be a bother… I don't think I'd mind if you stayed close and kept an eye on me over the next few days."

"I can have a bed made up in my room." d'Artagnan suggested.

Siroc winced… considering the ramifications of that… not that he was not grateful but…the legend's son might see….

"Frankly, I think he'd rather stay with me." Le Pont announced, taking note of the reluctance in the inventor's stormy eyes.

"Jacques!" D'Artagnan did not like that suggestion at all, and could not even imagine she would make it. He was not aware she was privy to certain things about the reclusive inventor that he was not.

"It's alright D'art, he knows." Jacques smiled confidently, recalling how she had surprised the inventor in the garrison bathhouse. Siroc used the facilities in the latest watches of the night just as she did…they both, for different reasons, felt the need to hide from prying eyes.

The Gascon's eyes grew wider. "As if that would make the situation better!" he stormed.

"Really… it doesn't matter; he'll be more comfortable with me." She explained lightly.

The legend's son growled under his breath. "I don't want HIM all that comfortable with YOU, Jacqueline."

She smiled and shoved his shoulder playfully, "Don't be petty d'Artagnan, you should trust us both better than that."

"How can I trust him with you when I wouldn't trust me?" her hapless suitor hissed under his breath.

"Be grateful he's not you." She smiled winningly. "He needs a bit of mothering just now, you're not as qualified as I am, that's all there is to it."

D'Artagnan hated it when she smiled like that. It made his knees weak, in his mind he could hear his father's voice echo 'boy you got it bad' and it was true, Jacques knew the moment the Gascon had been won-over and with a well-worn smirk, she added, "besides, you snore, how would that help his headache?"

D'Artagnan frowned, and bit the inside of his lip, defeated. "I'll find an extra cot."

Siroc remained quiet during the entire interchange, allowing them to work it out as much as praying his pain remained under control, but Jacqueline noted he seemed relieved at the outcome.

A single candle flame lit the room. Siroc lay on the small cot and gazed at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. Jacqueline's breathing betrayed the fact that she was not yet asleep. She was troubled, the inventor had little doubt he was the cause. "Ask," he said simply.

"It's your back isn't it? The reason you looked so frightened…you were afraid d'Artagnan would see the scars."

Siroc's instinctive 'male-ness' bristled at the thought of being characterized as 'afraid'…a sure sign that the pain was still impairing his reasoning capabilities. He bit back the snappish response and tried to be truthful. "I do not want my marks common knowledge, no."

"But d'Artagnan is your friend, he would understand." She pointed out.

"You three are dear to me… I never dreamed I could experience such camaraderie… which is precisely why I won't risk it. I do not see you budding with enthusiasm at the prospect of telling Ramón you are Jacqueline and not Jacques." The inventor explained darkly.

She had to admit he had her there, that particular bit of knowledge would surely change the way the Spaniard treated her and possibly make life in the garrison impossible. The two comrades lay in the darkened room in silence a while longer. Finally, Jacqueline asked the inevitable question Siroc dreaded most, "How did you get them?"

Should he lie? Siroc wondered. Abusive relatives are not uncommon in France: young bookish boys with eccentric tendencies would naturally be prime targets for such things. However, Jacqueline had proven trustworthy time and again. She deserved better. He could not explain everything of course—the weight of his secrets was his alone to bear. But she deserved what honesty he could give. Besides which, her people were farmers, tied to the land they worked; she should understand his lot better than most. "I was a slave." He explained, thoughts drifting momentarily. In Italian, 'Schiavo' is the word for Slave. It was the only name his Master gave him. The harsh word resounded still in his aching mind.

_ i Kneel Schiavo! Kneel before me. I am Master. You belong to me. Do not forget, it is I who has broken you. My exquisitely trained pet; you are what I have made you. You are MINE to deal with as I see fit. /i _

"I escaped my Master," Siroc explained quietly. "He wants me back and doesn't seem to realize I'm free now and intend to do all in my power to stay that way" –truth.

"Understandable," Jacques nodded. "Any who would leave such an indelible impression, would hardly inspire loyalty," It was a weak attempt to make light of her friends revelation. She hoped he wouldn't take it wrong and continued on a more serious note. "D'Artagnan may be a noble but he would hardly expect anyone to accept such treatment meekly, slave or not. Does Ramón know?" Jacqueline asked.

"He hasn't asked. Similarly, I have never suggested he tell me what was so serious that he would rather live in exile in a foreign country than face his own family. We all have our secrets… All save d'Artagnan that is… his father may have secrets, but the life of the legend's son is an open book." Siroc scoffed.

Could it be… jealousy tingeing the sullen inventor's voice? Jacqueline mused; for once, she reasoned, Siroc's assessment was less than thorough. "You would not consider d'Artagnan's feelings for me a secret?" Jacqueline asked smugly, "Which, do you think, would create the greater scandal… that while in Berry he could be seen actively pursuing Jacques le Pont, fellow musketeer or Jacqueline Roget, cross-dressing fugitive?"

"I suppose there is that." Siroc smiled slowly. According to Ramón's ballads courtship was a trying situation even in the best of circumstances. Siroc admittedly was somewhat naive on the particulars of this topic and certainly had little experience of his own to-speak-of. Still he found it fascinating to watch Jacques and d'Artagnan tentatively circle one without giving anything away.

Strong emotion turned the ever confident d'Artagnan awkward as a schoolboy. He jabbered and preened all the while silently mourning that his attention was unrequited. Admittedly Jacques enjoyed the situation a bit more than she ought, Siroc noted. In all fairness, she should have informed the boy that he had won her heart months ago. Siroc thought to suggest that very thing on several occasions. But decided it wasn't his place to comment on something so personal.

His thought was diverted suddenly as the pain in his mind lifted as swiftly as it had begun…the inventor envisioned his former Master, fatigued from conjuring, had given up, frustrated, and gone to bed; freeing him do the same. Siroc would not have slept so soundly had he known the price of his Master's displeasure.

O

Elsewhere in the capital, dark Master was NOT sleeping. He was livid. He had sent dark energy lancing through the ether after his pet, time and again. Still the reaction was not as it should be. His mind still caressed the glossy black obelisk calling for more power from this miniature version of the artifact in his dark citadel. It was no use; his thoughts were too turbid to focus the relic's energy.

Mazarin had to admit that it had proven difficult; and at times unsafe, to contain his creation's voracious intellectual appetite in the citadel confines. It had seemed prudent to allow the creature ameasure of freedom to learn and grow. But Mazarin never imagined his pet could slip the psychic fetter that compelled him to obey. His predecessor, Richelieu, had left comprehensive notes on his mastery of the dark arts they all said such things were impossible. Once a subject was bound…it stayed bound, till death. Yet, the dark Cardinal could feel his i _Schiavo /i _was not dead. Neither was there any reasonable explanation for the creature's lack of response.

Almost two years ago, his pet had been far-distant when Mazarin reached out to him, the energy had been diluted but it still took hold. The Master sensed that even if the young slave were to set out immediately, he could never hope to arrive in time. On that occasion, the Master understood why there had been no immediate response to his summons, and had finally released his pet from the compulsion to return. It would have been unfortunate if i _Schiavo /i _hadtorn himself body from mind trying to obey. Especially after Mazarin spent so much time and energy training him.

This was something else altogether.

It seemed something altered the fundamental nature of hispet and the dark force no longer held him in sway. Any power capable of accomplishing such a miraculous feat was a clear and present threat, not only to Mazarin personally, but to the very foundation of the dark order.

The Master growled, eyes blazing, and paced the chamber like a wild beast. Something had to be done. Unfortunately, the Master had never thought to question his pet about the life he made for himself outside the citadel and could not guess what type of negative influences the slave might have been exposed to. Still, if the Master had learned one thing from his experiments with _Schiavo_,it is that knowledge is an important part of ones arsenal. Now, where should he obtain that knowledge? Mazarin smiled… and it was a chilling sight. He did not know that far to the south another mind caught the stirring of his power as well.

O

The moon shown bright and clear, bathing the wild wood in its mellow light. A figure clothed in shadow slipped soundlessly, wraithlike, through the night. The same could not be said for the three attempting to stalk her. Protector licked her lips and smiled. She could sense their nervousness in the cool night air as they approached. Etienne, Anton and Andy were young and inexperienced using their gifts, which was the reason for this outing in the first place.

Anton, the largest of the group had just had celebrated the dawn of his fourteenth year. Already his adolescent frame was taking on the size and prodigious proportions that went along with the Porthos' bloodline. He hunched, bear-like, in the shadows… his blond head bowed to examine the boot print she had left for them in a patch of sand. Etienne came next, skirting the edge of the glade. The young de Ruse was more mouse-like in his creeping. Quick witted and ready to smile, it seemed he shared none of his Uncle Aramis's intensity. The young cousins' night vision was certainly above average and their tracking skills were improving… still…

As Protector watched from hiding, she sensed something amiss… in the back of her mind the darkness seethed. She caught her breath, eyes widening in realization—one of her own was in trouble. This game was over. "Andy!" she called out her daughter.

"Awwwe, you caught us again." She moaned. The young blond had been carefully worming her way up the grass hill on her stomach toward her mother's hiding place while the others acted as a distraction. The lass had hoped to remain unnoticed long enough to pounce.

"There's going to be trouble. I'm needed in the capital," Protector announced.

"You're sending us back to Berry aren't you?" Etienne asked, crestfallen. Anton sighed sadly and kicked at a pile of leaves.

"Not this time. The bronze-haired huntress shook her head, "We've got work to do."

O

Ramón had been proud that Captain Duvall trusted him with the recruits patrolling Picardy, showing them the ropes as it were. It had been wearing. They had not liked camping out in the open and now that they were on the circuit headed back to the capital, Ramón hoped to still their complaining tongues by stopping at an inn for the night.

To soothe his frazzled nerves, the Spaniard left the young ones to their own devices and spent the evening in pleasant Rhapsody among witty company of local actors and word-smiths. In the morning, however, Ramón was his usual surly self. After a sending a scathing verbal barrage at the recruits attempting to rouse him with jeers and complaints… His charges decided to leave him to his rest till the landlady decided to turn him out. They decided that if Ramón would not act amiably … he could make his way to the capital on his own. One of the first lessons a musketeer learns is never to leave a comrade. Unfortunately these five had yet to learn that 'all for one and one for all' ought to included caffeine bereft Spaniards as well.

Theirs was a fateful decision as it turned out. Likewise Ramón's choice to recite his "Ballad of the Bully's Disgrace." the night before had been unfortunate as well. Though it had garnered much accolade the previous evening, the well-crafted lay drew the attention of unfriendly eyes as well.

Siroc had warned the overly enthusiastic poet that their recent adventure, whisking the king to safety as Paris burned, ought to stay their own secret for at least a season or two till they could investigate fully.

Ramón believed his latest lay artfully concealed the fact that his inspiration had been Tuileries fire. But these dread witnesses could not help but recognize the incident. They still smarted from the punishment the dark Master dealt them upon learning four young musketeer successfully spirited king out of the capital…directly under their soot stained noses.

0

It was nearly noon when the poet settled his bill… an almost un-heard of four livres for room, bed and board. Ramón was still a bit disgruntled as he knelt to tighten the girth on his fractious mount. Suddenly a foul smelling sack enveloped the musketeer's head. Whatever the cloth had been soaked in quickly sent his mind reeling. Ramón lunged for his attackers. His fists connected more than once with the one twisting the mouth of the bag tight around his neck, but to no avail. His movements grew sluggish and increasingly uncoordinated, till unconsciousness overwhelmed him.

**O**

**Chapter 2: Lost**


	2. Chapter 2: Lost

**+------------------------------+  
**

**Chapter 2: Lost**

The chill of stone seeping into his bruised body slowly roused Ramón from the abyss where his consciousness had fled. A thick leather collar secured the fetid bag over his head. The hateful band locked so securely around his neck that it pained him even to swallow. He was still effectively blind and helpless as a newly hatched chick. Thick straps, probably of leather, bound his elbows securely behind his back—pinning his upper arms to his sides. Someone, presumably the guards, had stripped him of all but his small clothes. Ramón had no idea where he had been taken, how long he had been unconscious, or why he was being subjected to this indignity in the first place. That last slight was perhaps the most disconcerting facet of them all.

He awkwardly crawled to his feet, intending to investigate his surroundings…unfortunately; the effects of his potion soaked hood were undiminished. The cold stone heaved beneath him like a storm tossed ship and his world spun sending him painfully to his knees. He wretched, morbidly thankful that, after the unexpected expense of the room he had decided not to break-fast that morning… bile would certainly not bring any improvement to the reeking cloth about his face. Hood and collar made catching his breath difficult. "Help!" Ramón gasped hoarsely.

"There is no help for you." A voice laughed and punctuated the pronouncement by kicking the Spaniard harshly in the ribs. If Ramón had not been so disorientated, he might have recognized the voice as belonging to the buff coated bully who had assaulted him months earlier in the garden of le Tuileries. In his present condition however, Ramón would not have recognized the voice had it belonged to the Cardinal himself. As it turned out, the 'tough' was one, François Villefore, a particularly disagreeable Sergeant in Mazarin's Guard.

"Where am I? Why are you doing this?" the Spaniard pleaded, tucking his knees to his chest to fend off further blows.

"Where you are, is irrelevant. The reason you are here – frankly, is because you talk too much. To that end, someone has questions to ask you – and you will answer them. And as for why am I doing this—" the man said, kicking Ramón's back viciously, "it's because I don't like you."

The Spaniard could not know that when he defeated Villefore in that duel he shamed the swashbuckler before his peers…for this slight alone, the man relished the opportunity for retribution. Furthermore, hooded as he was, Ramón was also unaware that his frantic struggles in the barn left François's eye blackened; lip split and ribs sore (if not cracked)… all the Spaniard knew was that the toe of the man's boot felt as if it had been reinforced with steal and proved brutally adept at finding his soft spots.

Ramón groaned…swimming in and out consciousness—He quickly lost all sense of time…but his guards did not. They had very specific instructions of how to prepare a prisoner for interrogation. Primarily, the subject must feel completely helplessness—hence the musketeer's lack of clothes. Secondly, they permitted him no more than a half-hour of uninterrupted sleep… painfully punctuated by bruises.

Deprivation played an important role in the conditioning process as well. The prisoner's hood blocked out all light, muffled sound, not to mention, completely inundating the olfactory sense. The prisoner would receive no solid food for the duration of his stay and only a half-goblet of water, at unpredictable intervals, no more than twice a day. The water tasted stagnant and burned, obviously tainted with more of the foul smelling potion. Tears mingled with the liquid soaking his hood he choked down what little liquid was given. There was also no relief from the noxious vapors dulling his mind. Aside from continued weakness and disorientation, there was no way of telling what effect the mixture had on him. All too soon he would have to brace himself for another beating. In this fashion Ramón was kept hopelessly off balance while slowly eroding all resistance.

**OO**

When on a mission there are one-hundred-and-eleven completely justifiable reasons that could delay the return of even the most contentious musketeer… Siroc knew this for a fact because he had been the one Duval asked to study countless reports to compile that very complete list. Ramón had been known on occasion to take the scenic route in pleasant weather and arrive a day or two behind schedule. Nevertheless, when two days turned into four and there was still no sign of him… the others took their concern to the captain.

"Have you heard anything of Private de la Cruz Sir?" d'Artagnan asked, "We expected him back days ago."

"Days, hmm?" Duval frowned, rifling through a stack of reports on his cluttered desk. Finally, he located the one he was seeking.

"His survey team returned from Amiens almost 3 days ago. According to their report, they parted from him at _L'hotel le Grand-Chemin_ in Vignacourt. He was expected to follow shortly thereafter."

"May we go and see what is keeping him?" Jacques volunteered.

The captain nodded, "I should send someone, It may as well be you three."

"Thank you sir," Siroc nodded. The three young musketeers were ready to journey northward within the hour.

**O**

Picardy has a distinct character: rolling chalk hills and lush green valleys, picturesque villages, vineyards and dairy-farm. Unlike surrounding areas, the houses here are constructed of dark red bricks. The quaint landscape is made even lovelier in the dewy softness of spring, beech, birch and oak cloaked in verdant splendor.

On a lonely road, through the ancient forests of the Oise, d'Artagnan spotted a family of wild boar and was determined to take down one wily tusker to augment their hastily procured and somewhat dull rations.

"Don't!" Siroc warned, but his reckless companion drew his musket and spurred his mount into the underbrush.

Jacques sighed, "Didn't the Great Charles De Batz ever teach him that you need a good stout spear to take down a boar?"

"Despite his Gascon heritage, and his vacations in Berry, our Dart is a city boy, and a noble one at that." Siroc shrugged. "I've heard him boast about few hunting experiences. In those it was pheasant or stag and not pork that he'd set his sights on."

Crack… crack… crack… the quick report musket shots broke the silence of the wood then came a cry "Aiiieeeee!" The others were about to rally to their companion's aide but the dark haired young man stumbled from the bush shaken and breathless. "It… gored… my horse…I hit it with two shots…and it still kept coming. I lost my horse and barely got away myself!" he panted. The loss of the horse was a difficult thing to take. True only officers and those in the corps willing to pay had their own steeds. The rest took whichever was available from the garrison's herd. The legend's son had ridden the bay more than once and found him temperamental but usually stalwart. He had not expected to be thrown in such an unseemly fashion. Now Duval would likely take the cost of the beast out of his pay. D'Artagnan frowned.

Jacqueline saw his distress and decided to do what she could to take his mind off the situation. "My brave hunter." She smiled playfully, and blew him a kiss. "Now you must ride with me."

D'Artagnan blushed to the tips of his ears.

O

The door to the office was flung open as if cast aside by a force of nature. Captain Duval's heart skipped a beat. A statuesque woman in hunting leathers regarded him with fiery eyes. And for once the venerable captain felt like a recruit again. Alongside lieutenants Athos, Aramis and Porthos—Protector had been Captain Trevelles' secret weapon. No matter that she was younger than they, no matter that she was the only woman in an all male corps. Protector was a force to be reckoned with, a hellcat that deserved respect. Duval gasped and rose to his feet but resisted the urge to salute.

She spoke without preamble, "Where are they Martin?"

They? The captain bit his lip absently… They… "Young Dart and his companions?" he inquired.

She nodded curtly. "I have reason to believe they're in trouble."

He had the urge to say "That's hardly anything new," but the seriousness in her stance stilled his flip remark. She wouldn't be in the capital if this was a run-of-the-mill difficulty. "Private de la Cruz did not return from patrol when expected with the others; d'Artagnan, le Pont and Siroc have gone to Picardy after him."

She ran a hand through her dark auburn mane and hoped he hadn't noticed her wince… A musketeer disappearing in that area did not bode well at all. She would have to pay a visit to the palace.

"You'll bring them back?" Duval asked, not bothering to conceal the fatherly affection he felt for the four.

"Who am I?" She smiled, recognizing the light in his hazel eyes.

"Protector." He nodded, understanding she would do all in her power: which he well knew was considerable.

O

They say ill luck often occurs in triplets. And so it appeared for our three adventurers. The first stroke was Ramón's disappearance. The second was the loss of d'Artagnan's horse. The third occurred about dusk. The light had begun to fade but the riders had not yet decided to stop and make camp in the wood.

They expected to see lights from a nearby village glimmering through the trees any minute; once there, it should be simple to secure lodgings for the night. Then, without warning, shadowy figures emerged from the woods and fell upon them—brigands—they were outnumbered two to one. D'Artagnan (having lost his musket along with his horse) drew his blade and was not the only one to do so.

Jacques leapt off her horse seconds after her would-be beau. She met her opponent's clumsy thrust and parried with a strong turn of her wrist; then drew her arm in a deadly riposte. The scoundrel only just managed to dodge away. She was facing two opponents at once now, both with dancer-like agility and grace. This duo pressed even her considerable skill. She fought defensively, taking advantage of the uneven terrain to gain the upper hand.

The man facing Siroc held himself as a practiced duelist. He stood poised, tensed as a great cat ready to spring; left hand in a graceful and easy curve over his head, right arm and knees slightly bent a frozen picture of grace.

Rather than admire the tableau the inventor leapt into action. The others sometimes teased that in swordsmanship he was not as proficient as they were. Truly, he did not seek opportunities to practice the skill as frequently as they did either. An insidious little voice whispered that slaves did not practice weapons. Siroc had endured many beatings … Bernard taunted him for that fact. But Bernard had not been the one charged with the duty of keeping the Master's pet in shape. The guard who had; chose to interpret that command as he saw fit, and believed a tool can be a weapon as well.

"_Head, hand and heart make them one."_ His trainer urged, _Move like flame Sirra, do not let your opponent anticipate you._ _Focus, balance, resolve. What is pain to one such as you? Take the hit but be unmoved by it…  
Let them underestimate you. When your opponent least suspects—Show your might. _ Only the Master's command to 'SUBMIT' could prevent Siroc from giving better than he got, every time. No one commanded him now.

Siroc's slender blade whipped in a perfect half circle, easily binding his opponent's blade. They danced around one another. The other man closed in, attempting to free his blade and steal sang. It was then Siroc's true Mastery came into play.

The blond's off hand closed in a fist, and with a viper-like strike, connected with the man's jaw sending him flying backward in a daze. It had been so sudden, so unexpected that none of the man's companions realized what had happened—all but one. That man smiled, and squared off against the inventor bare handed. It was clear from his stance that this man was a notable pugilist. Siroc returned the man's smile and accepted the wordless challenge, returning his sword to its sheath.

There had been a time Siroc entered the ring several times a week, fighting against prisoners and other slaves. The prize of food or other small treats smuggled in from 'outside' made it an entertaining and worthwhile diversion. But this former champion had not had the opportunity for fisticuffs since becoming a musketeer.

The two circled, regarding one another past upraised fists. Siroc liked to get the measure of the man he faced, it was in the eyes. The other was sure of him self: never took a backward step and had remorseless accuracy. Not long into the fight he opened cut in the corner of Siroc's right eye and the musketeer felt crimson tears run down his cheek.

Any ex-slave knew how to take a punch, usually more than one.

They exchanged blows for some time till finally Siroc drilled his opponent with a rapid-fire three-shot combination. The other man bent at the waist, and the blond musketeer struck serpent like and nailed the brigand with two more whistling uppercuts to the jaw.

D'Artagnan's bout was the one that ended it for them all. What his young opponent lacked in height he made up for ferocity. D'Artagnan refused to admit he was loosing ground. He simply would not allow himself to be bested twice in one day; first by a beast, now by a bandit. He pushed the realization, that his opponent looked-to-be little more than sixteen, far from his mind. And began the sequence his father taught him—First confuse your opponent, he thought. With a sudden surge of energy, he darted forward and blades clashed with furious intensity, which was unusual even for the legend's son.

D'Artagnan, the younger, forced his opponent was to fight off balance striking by instinct rather than design. In his mind, his father's instruction echoed. "Parry septiem—push your opponent's blade low and to the left. Permit him to recover then turn his blade again with a quick riposte. Next, aim for the left shoulder and lunge in quarte. Envelop the others blade with a smooth semi-circular motion and strike his forearm, taking him by surprise." The Gascon executed each move, with a crispness worthy of his legendary father, then moved to end the match… with the death stroke between his opponents eyes. Suddenly the young bandit facing him called "HOLD!"

Everyone was so startled by that loud command that all combatants complied.

"Your hilt bears the mark of the Fleur-de-lie," The young fencer announced.

"It is true. This is my father's blade. He is a musketeer. As am I!" d'Artagnan declared.

"As are we." Siroc added, as his opponent, rocked by the explosion of blows, buckled at the knees and dropped bloodied nose to the ground.

"If this is so, then we owe you an apology. You are not the contemptible poltroons who have abducted my sister." The youth frowned: oblivious to how close the Gascon had come to ending his short life … all over a misunderstanding.

**Chapter 3: Faith**


	3. Chapter 3: Faith

**Chapter 3: Faith**

Ramón knelt. It was all he could do. His balance was ruined and crawling exhausted him beyond belief. If he lay, the guards would come and harass him; so he knelt. His voice was the barest whisper as he intoned the words his mother had taught him as a child. Back when everything had been right with the world. _ i The Lord is my Shepherd: _

_Jehová es mi pastor; nada me faltará. En lugares de delicados pastos me hará descansar; Junto a aguas de reposo me pastoreará. /i _

Ramón recalled visiting Cathedral in Granada with his mother on the high holy days. The large columns and high fan vaulted ceilings seemed so vast—an architectural illustration of heaven on earth. The Calvary Chapel, at home in Montefrío, with its Gothic exterior and Roman design was a more intimate experience; regardless of the surroundings the Psalm was a pinnacle of relief and encouragement. His present circumstance was no different.

_ i Confortará mi alma; Me guiará por sendas de justicia por amor de su nombre. /i _

The last time he had spent this much time on his knees it was beside the unmarked graves of his parents. Uncle Fernando had gone to Madrid and gotten himself enchanted by a money grasping i _perra_. /i It was no secret she drove him to become Don in his elder brother's place.

_ i _ _Aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte, No temeré mal alguno, porque tú estarás conmigo; Tu vara y tu cayado me infundirán aliento. /i _

There was no one willing to care for eight children between the ages of twelve and two. His brothers and sisters, even dear Lucinda who taught him to see the world through a poet's eye … Gone. Ramón, the as eldest male, was the only one to stay in Montefrío. It was misery to live under his Uncle's dominion in what had been Papá's home and should have been his, but was not.

_ i Aderezas mesa delante de mí en presencia de mis angustiadores; Unges mi cabeza con aceite; mi copa está rebosando. /i _

It had been a dark time, yes, but Jehová is faithful. Seasons in ones life change. When Ramón finally stood up to Uncle Fernando and accused him of perpetrating the murder: His uncle disowned Ramón, and life, as he knew it, ended.

Nevertheless, things turned out all right, had they not? A poet must experience height, depth, and everything in-between if he wishes to capture the true essence of art. One must come forth from trial as one refined by fire.

As a child, Ramón had been fascinated by the Master-craft of the forge. At home in Montefrío, he witnesses the creation of beautiful objects wrought of precious metals and gems. It would have been impossible if the raw elements had not first, been thrust into the fire. If he would create sonnets and rhapsodies of equal beauty then he too must brave the flame.

And so Ramón had come to France, the famed heart of romance and fortune. Not to mention that France opposed the Hapsburgs. Uncle Fernando was an ardent supporter of Habsburg power, his fortune was inexorably linked to the fortunes of war. "the enemy of my enemy is my friend." His father used to say. Ramon figured that by fighting alongside the forces of Louis XIV he could still oppose his uncle's interests, albeit indirectly. The young ex-patriot never expected to find stouthearted i _compañeros_ /i among the musketeers. He had been welcomed in their midst and found a new family. His musketeer brothers would come for him. This dark time would pass just as that, other did. In the shadow of death he would seek the refining fires …He would not loose hope. This trial will pass and soon he would be restored to the bright fellowship of his friends.

_ i Ciertamente el bien y la misericordia me seguirán todos los días de mi vida, Y en la casa de Jehová moraré por largos días. (Psalm 23) /i _

It was good to have faith.

O

The young swordsman saluted d'Artagnan and the others, "I am Gaston St. Just. My sister and I are part of an acting troop."

"You are all… actors?" Siroc asked, making a motion that encompassed all the 'bandits'—most of whom who looked somewhat worse for wear after their recent encounter of the musketeer-kind.

The boy, Gaston, grinned, and with a flourish launched into an effortless series of back flips. "Acrobats and—" As He landed feet together arms outstretched there was a blazing flash of light and suddenly his form was wreathed in swirling gray smoke, "—magicians." The youth was nowhere to be seen, he had simply dissolved into the darkness.

Jacques and D'Artagnan caught their breath, eyes wide in surprise…their horse nickered and shied…it was as surprised with the sudden theatrics as they were.

Siroc only raised an eyebrow. "Very nice. Potassium Perchlorate and German Aluminum?"

The boy re-materialized in a more conventional manor, casually dropping off an overhead tree branch. "German Aluminum, Barium Nitrate and Sulfur actually," The youth admitted with surprise. "The Sulfur helps stabilize the powder…It's my sister's Corine's recipe. She can make red and green too. The troop never had a better props mistress." Then he looked suddenly downcast. "She was abducted when we were performing in Vignacourt."

"Our friend also disappeared near Vignacourt, at i _L'hotel le Grand_, /i some five day ago." Jacques explained, sensing no deception in the young man. It helped that the youth's companion offered to bind up the shoulder-wound he had given her during the fight.

"Our Ramón fancies himself quite a poet, and would be naturally drawn to like-minded peoples. You are sure he and your Corine are not holed up in rhapsody somewhere?" d'Artagnan asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry, but no," another of the band answered. "We may find them together, but not in some innocent tête-à-tête. We found signs of a struggle in the barn and there was blood. Not enough to mean a serious wound mind you…more like what your friend (he indicated Siroc's with a nod of his head) gave our Alain there."

The pugilist, Alain leaned against a tree trunk, head back, still nursing his bloody nose. He did not permit his injury to keep him out of the discussion. "We got to the inn soon after the event took place." He explained, "Clearly signs of struggle and a fair number of horses traveling in this direction…it seemed that riders would double back at various intervals as if wary of being followed—we thought you might have been sent back to end pursuit. It would have been the first concrete lead we've had in three days."

"I AM sorry." Siroc frowned offering the Alain his handkerchief to staunch the crimson flow.

"Don't be." the man smiled. "I haven't had such a good fight in a while… and you're likely to have a black eye in the morning."

"I may at that," the inventor admitted, licking his finger and daubing at the dried blood on his temple and cheek. "I am Siroc, by the way." He offered his hand, and pulled the man gently to his feet.

"Alain Dontés—Well met." The pugilist nodded affably and accepted Siroc's hand, "We travel with Gypsies. The caravan is not far. You and your friends can spend the night by our fire." Alain invited and the others agreed.

**O**

Corine St. Just was an incidental prisoner; she happened to be near the barn and heard the struggle. Cursed with what her mother called "more courage than plain sense," she waded into the fray. Villefore's burly guardsmen had quickly overcome the would-be-heroine and carried her off to play hostage if one was needed—and trophy if one was not.

The countryside had spun by in a dizzying blur as she rode tethered behind a saddle like a sack of grain. She glimpsed the other prisoner from time to time: obviously unconscious and bound hand and foot. She thought she recognized his garments from the inn the night before, the poet. She had not caught his name.

Corine had traveled widely with the troop, entertaining in villages and backwater towns from Bruxelles to Bordeaux, yet she had absolutely no concept of where the soldiers were taking her. It was night when they finally reached their destination…A i _Donjon /i _ dark and imposing, silhouette against the night sky. Corine's breath caught in her throat "Why oh why did I get myself into this?" she muttered to herself as the horses jostled one-another along the causeway leading to the barbican.

Corine saw little of the Keep itself, but the crypts beneath it were dank and cold. Her captors threatened, but she had not been ill-used as of yet. In fact, her treatment, since arriving at their destination had on the whole been quite tolerable. Her primary guard was a lieutenant who called himself Malcolm de Leon. While young, he fell into what her brother, Gaston, called the 'crusty soldier' variety. The lieutenant remembered little of life beyond duty. Minding her was a chore he found increasingly problematic. She noted his restlessness and questioned him about it.

With great difficulty and no small amount of shame, the young guard finally admitted Corine reminded him of someone called Amber, a close relation, though he referred to her some times as his sister and other times as cousin. She did not exactly understand that… but about one thing he was quite clear. Guards of his caliber did not speak about i _things from before_. /i That was concrete command. He saw himself as somehow _ i flawed /i _ by this small taint of sentimentality.'

"I am blade bound. There's not much I can do." He explained, "In the long run I've got no choice, but some small favors might be overlooked." Mal whispered, passing a few bits of bread and cheese through the bars of her cell. There was fear in his eyes. If any were to discover his lapse, it would mean very real; and painful punishment perhaps even meriting i _a lesson of power_ /i from the one that called himself i '_Master_. /i 

"What about the other prisoner?" Corine asked, "Can you help him?"

"No i _Mademoiselle /i _ …There's nothing that can be done for him. He's slated for a rough time of it before Master's finishes, from what I've seen, there may not be much left." the guard shivered and swallowed hard. "If you knew him—I'm sorry."

O

Protector had been able to walk into the musketeer garrison with impunity. In her youth she served alongside Athos, Aramis and the rest of the legends. But getting side the royal palace seemed another matter altogether. Anton eyed the mammoth edifice with speculation. He'd never seen anything as large and imposing as the great the Louvre – one does dot come to call on royals without an express invitation. "How will we get inside?" he asked breathlessly.

Protector smiled, a private smile. Though few knew the truth of it, She had as much right to access these hallowed halls as she did those of the garrison. Louis XIII had been her father and Richelieu shaped her to be his heir. She turned from both birthrights but that did not mean they did not come in handy from time to time. She had often taught her daughter Andy the truth of such things. But how well had the blond lass learned them? Protector decided to let her daughter explain to her companions.

"Tell the lads about this place Andy lass."

The young blond looked abashed and folded her hands behind her back. She closed her eyes and carefully recited, "Philippe-Auguste, built the Louvre in the late 12th century as a fortress on the edge of the city to protect Paris from Anglo-Norman invaders. In the 14th century, Charles V turned it into a palace of the arts, but Francois I and Henri II tore it down to build a real palace; the foundations of the original fortress tower remain. King Henri IV built the Grande Galerie is the longest building in the world. Measuring more than a full lieue de post long .4 miles and ninety-four pied wide 100ft. King Louis, the thirteenth of that name, designed and completed the Denon Wing. The Richelieu Wing which takes up most of the north side of the palace was also built at that time."

Protector smiled approvingly and leaned into the smooth marble façade of the north wall. "Is it so strange," she began, feeling along the recesses edge "that the one Richelieu named his Heir to would have access to—" she found what she was looking for and pressed the hidden trigger "—his secrets." The panel slid soundlessly away, revealing a dark corridor.

Young Etienne eyes were wide with excitement; this was just the sort of adventure he lived for, so much better than tramping around in the wilderness.


	4. Chapter 4: Hope & Fear

**Chapter 4: Hope & Fear**

Ramón's stomach clung to his spine with hunger. That was his only lucid thought as he swam in and out of consciousness. Even the beatings did little to rouse him now.

"It is almost time." Villefore smiled thinly, as he poured liquid onto the Spaniard's still hooded face…

He did not even have the strength to swallow. What the cloth did not absorb splashed on the floor.

"It's taken long enough." Another guard spat. "I hate this kind of work."

"You squeamish? Gaspar, I never would have guessed." François sneered.

"To pry open a body's mind like some old trunk to permit someone else to rummage about in it; taking what they please? Its just not… you know." The rangy guard glowered.

"Ah the voice of someone with a guilty continence—don't you open your mind fully at the Master's command? Just what is it you don't want him to know?" François asked, thoughtfully stroking his beard. The coarse triangle hardly improved his angular features.

"Now you listen, Villefore…" Maurice Gaspar stiffened. "If I was trying to keep something from HIM, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"

"You might." François chuckled; it was a cold joyless sound. "But you'd find yourself in the same condition as our friend here…soon enough" –nudging the inert body with his toe.

Gaspar shivered and ran his fingers through his stringy tallow colored hair. His gaunt features looked as if he had not seen the sun in months. "I've nothing to hide," he grumbled curtly.

"The Dark ones will be arriving soon. Perhaps I should ask if the Master wants a subject for them to warm-up on. I mean, since you're so eager and all." François said emotionlessly—He could have been teasing.

Gaspar HOPED he was teasing. You never could tell with Villefore.

Killing for the Cardinal was one thing … kidnapping … that did not bother Gaspar much ether. He had even sold a few troublesome relatives to slave in the colonies, but this?

Every guard had been subject to least one of the Master's 'lessons.' Any sane man would fear the man's ministrations ever after. The problem was that; those ministrations had not exactly left François Villefore sane. What's more, the man had acquired a taste for power.

The mere mention of the dark ones made Gaspar's blood run cold. Anything he could say to Villefore would only make matters worse. The younger guard tried to mask his fear and let the matter drop.

o

The sinister Cardinal took some measure of satisfaction in watching in secret as his guard worked. The prisoner was completely at their mercy and soon would be at his as well. Of course The Master was not a man noted for his mercy, at least not within the confines of his dark Citadel. Mazarin peered through the viewing slot into the cell holding his latest acquisition. This prisoner held much promise. He had wanted to get his hands on this one for some time—ever since a certain sorceress failed in her attempt to procure him. Now everything was as it should be and he was anxious to begin the next stage. The Master watched admiringly as Villefore kicked the inert form. It was easy to recognize the undisguised glee shining in his guard's eyes. "This one bears watching," the Cardinal mumbled to himself.

The prisoner made no move to fend off the vicious attack. "Soon." the Master smiled to himself, pulse quickening in anticipation. "The elixir will have done its job. The subject will be ripe. His thoughts will open to my command, and reveal what I most want to know—after that; his very soul is mine for the taking! Perhaps I ought to make myself a new pet," Mazarin mused. "As the old one is proving increasingly...troublesome."

Lost in his thoughts, Mazarin left Villefore and Gaspar to their work and strode down the dimly lit hall. As a rule he paid little attention to his guardsmen. They were merely tools to use or dispense with, as he saw fit. The only thing that mattered was that they obey his commands with unquestioned diligence. In truth, he could recognize less than a handful of officers by sight. The rest were nameless, faceless men as uniformly uninteresting as the scarlet tunics they wore.

The Cardinal's cold eyes slid past Malcolm de Leon without notice or recognition. At the Master's approach the young man stopped what he was doing and snapped to attention, which was only to be expected. The Lieutenant's heart beat fast in his chest and his breath quickened. There was no doubt in his mind that sharing his bread ration with the female in cell 134J was wrong. He had no business conversing with her, and yet memory drew him back to her cell door as surely as a loadstone. There was no doubt the punishment would be severe if the Master were to sense the guilt shadowing his mind. The Lieutenant knew it was well within the Master's right to break him. But he did not. And in a swirl of red robes, Mazarin continued along the corridor oblivious to those around him. Only then did the young lieutenant realize he had been waiting with baited breath. He exhaled deeply and continued with his duties.

O

Gaston St-Just led the three young musketeers to a pleasant clearing by a stream. Gypsy wagons, called i Vardo, /i sat like brightly colored baubles on a bracelet. This protective ring encompassed the world of the i Romani. /i Woman sat on brightly colored blankets. They chatted idly and used drop spindles to turn rough wool into yarn. Others used small hand held looms to weave the yarn into cloth by firelight. Some children tried their hand at sending the shuttle back and forth between the threads of the loom while others capered about playing under the watchful eye of their elders.

The arrival of newcomers caused a stir among the community, but not as much as one might suspect. Alan Dontés and Gaston St-just stood with them on the edge of the camp waiting for permission to enter. Seconds later an old woman emerged from the largest, most elaborately decorated wagon and approached. Her body was frail but she carried herself like a queen.

"This is Unku," Alain introduced She is the clan i drabardi /i a wise woman healer. It is her decision whether or not the clan will allow you here. Two weeks ago she predicted 'three blue would venture here." Young Gaston recalled excitedly, "The Musketeer dress uniform is blue and there ARE three of you. I just know you are the key to finding my sister Corinne!"

The old woman walked in a cautious circle around the newcomers, shaking her head and clucking her tongue like a wizened grandmother. It reminded d'Artagnan of the time he'd gotten into a fight walking home from mass when he was ten. Mother had him washing dishes for a week. She didn't seem to care that he'd won his first duel. Clearly, that was not justification for sullying his best clothes, not to mention receiving a black eye in the bargain.

D'Artagnan frowned, attempting to return the wise woman's measuring stare. The Gascon felt no better when he realized the i drabardi's /i aloof attitude seemed primarily directed at Jacques, though her disapproval bled onto the rest of the party as well.

The wiry haired matriarch of the clan clearly took interest in Jacques' shoulder wound. In broken French, she announced, "The i Gadje Shavora /i have offer i Dav Pakiv /i to the blue. This is good. But a i Rakli /i is not like the i Gadjo /i and to pretend otherwise among i Natsia /i would surely be i Prikaza. /i and must be remedied. With that, nearly incomprehensible pronouncement she hastily shuffled a mildly protesting Jacques into one of the brightly colored wagons.

D'Artagnan nearly drew his sword and went after her but Alain stayed his hand. "Its all right, she means no harm … Don't worry." The actor smiled, eyes shining with wry amusement. D'Artagnan didn't try to understand the musical language of the gypsy he just kept sending anxious glances at the brightly colored wagon where Jacques had been taken.

Siroc had an ear for languages and was fluent in several. Romanes was most assuredly not among them. His training however permitted him to use the foundation he had to puzzle out the meaning of others. Given a few basics he suspected he may be able to puzzle out most of it. "I take it you understand her?" the inventor asked Gaston…who was also smiling.

"We are i Gadje Shavora." /i The boy explained, "It means Out-clan companions. Our troop has been traveling with the clan long enough to be accepted but we are not a part of it. i Romani /i are very private people and not usually welcoming of outsiders. If not for Unku's prophesy I would not have brought you here. i Dav Pakiv /i is respect, honor and esteem. The tribe, or i Natsia /i has often been attacked or otherwise been endangered by outsiders. Generations upon generations they have grown very insular. They have very clear ideas about what is i Prikaza /i ill omen."

Siroc's mind had been trained to perform many uncanny feats. He closed his eyes and replayed what the woman had said… integrating the new words Gaston had explained.

Purposefully or not, there were two words the boy had neglected to explain: i Gadj o /i and i Rakli /i . The first sounded like i Gadje Shavora /i so Siroc reasoned it must have something to do with ether outsiders or companions…The second he had no frame of reference and couldn't hazard to guess. Still, the inventor was relatively certain the word had something to do with what ever made them particularly 'ill-omened' and would surely explain why Jacques had been singled out, while rest stood idle at the edge of camp.

Siroc was just about to confide his suspicions, and see if Alain or Gaston would conform or deny their validity, when Jacqueline emerged from the i Vardo, /i looking amused.

The gypsies not only changed her bandages, the rough and tumble 'musketeer-ess' emerged dressed as the other woman in the troop: in long colorful skirt, beaded shawl and faded blouse. Her hair had not been braided or laced with brightly colored ribbons, but was covered in a bright kerchief. The sky blue sash others wore around the waist served her well as a sling.

Siroc smiled…putting the last pieces if the puzzle together, a i Rakli /i is an out clan female and he and d'Artagnan were i Gadjo /i out-clan males. Jacques disguise was clearly what had been i Prikaza, /i or ill omen.

Gaston and Alain were both surprised Siroc unraveled their little linguistic mystery so quickly and went on to explain that those out-clan…male and female both were called i Gadjikane. /i Now that Unku approved of the group, they were free to enjoy the i Pachiv /i –a Ceremonial celebrations to honor special guests.

The two actors next introduced the young musketeers to Unku's son Spiro, the clan chief…or i Ray baro /i . At fifty-some years of age, Spiro was a magnificent specimen of manhood…his tattooed physique was better suited to a much younger man. He looked as if he could still lift an ox if he had a mind to. The chief spoke only Romanes, but offered the newcomers a solemn blessing in that language. With arms outstretched, he intoned i "Te avel angla tute, kodo khabe tai kado pimo tai menge pe sastimaste." /i Gaston dutifully translated into plain French for the others, "May this food be before you and in your memory, May it profit us in good health and in good spirit"

The woman spread the trestle tables with vegetables, bread and wine the main course was a stew they said was i Xaimoko /i with something called i Pertia. /i The gipsy that filled their bowls from the great iron cook pot over the fire had a twinkling eyes in her eyes that made d'Artagnan mildly uneasy. "What is it?" d'artagnan whispered.

"Rabbit Stew." Gaston grinned,

D'artagnan exhaled, relieved.

"With jellied pigs feet and ears."

Jacqueline laughed gleefully pointing out that with his face twisted up like that D'Artagnan looked, for all the world, like a child who had just been given a large dose of whooping-cough tonic.

"No, it's good, really" a young Romani girl explained. "Rom won't eat the pig of the i raya /i because they eat garbage. This i Pertia /i is especially good because of how it came to us. The i paguba, /i young men sent out after supplies, came upon this great bristled pig all worked up, it had attacked a very fine i grast /i and gotten more than it bargained for. Not some dull peasant steed this, the great i grai /i fought back and caved the boar's head in like a walnut with one mighty blow. They never saw anything like it. To eat a beast taken in such a way will make you strong and protect you from great evil."

"Wait a minute," Siroc broke in, his grasp of Romanes was questionable at best but this just seemed too much of a coincidence. "Do you mean to say the boar was killed by a horse?"

"Hai" the girl nodded her yes. "We cared for it well, It is just beyond the i vardo /i ."

D'Artagnan still looked confused so Siroc suggested he go look in the paddock and see if the gypsies found his missing horse. And sure enough, the noble Bay was grazing contentedly alongside the others. The legend's son forgot his former frustration with the beast and laced his fingers in its mane in casual greeting. It nipped his pant leg playfully in return.

0-0-0-0-0

Back in the heart of the camp, Alan Dontes shared a plate of i Mariki /i with Siroc. These proved to be sweet, layered pastries shaped into triangles. The inventor could not help but think Ramón would have loved them… likely rave about it for days. The thought stung, and when offered another, Siroc refused, "Just some meat please." The inventor mumbled.

The rangy pugilist nodded and used tongs to lift an animal of some sort wrapped in leaves off the coals…unquestioningly; Siroc impaled the meat on the tip of his dagger and pulled the tender flesh off with his teeth. Whatever it was, i Pliashka /i didn't taste half bad. There was something primal about it that gave him comfort. It reminded him that his uncanny nature made him a hunter: not just of ideas and facts—as his master intended, but a true predator like Chosen, Protector and the others Richelieu had called into being during the old régime. Those who that taken his friend could not hope to elude a hunter, such as himself.

As the evening wore on, the men of the company took out instruments and began to play i Brigaki djilia i –sorrow songs. The music was somber and melancholy: they sang in the tongue of i Manush /i —the people— a deeper, older form of Romanes that neither Alain nor Gaston could translate but the meaning was clear. One they thought of as their own was missing and all felt the loss. The women danced. Slow and undulating, their features tended to blur into a shadowed haze of scarves and sashes; yet their seemed to be poignancy in each sinuous movement.

This was a prayer! Siroc realized. A prayer for the safety of their lost one…Ours too, he hoped, and added his sentiment to theirs … Imagining hopes drifting together along the sinuous tendrils of smoke upward into the star littered vastness of the night.

O

Elsewhere: unholy chanting penetrated a different, starless void…that place that was beyond even dream. The dark ones drew the prisoner back into the nightmare that was consciousness. He felt the noxious cloth of the fitted hood still clung to his face. No light could penetrate; he had spent enough time engulfed in the featureless black to know it was true …

How was it then that a glowing shape appeared hovering before his unseeing eyes? He could see it clearly, a column about two rods tall narrowing to a squared off point at the top. It was blacker than the blackness but its umbra glowed red like coals, smoldering sigils in a language unknown to him marked its face.

The shape of the obelisk burned itself into his minds-eye. It was like a beacon, drawing him back from where he thought to hide in the confines of his mind—the prisoner was powerless against its pull.

Numbly, he felt his arms positioned above his head and chained. His ankles, also shackled, dangled off the end of the stone table on which he lay. This seemed to him a ludicrous precaution, he had not been capable of moving unaided for days at least … he was not about to do so now.

----- 

After Villefore and Gaspar secured the prisoner to the alter-stone they quickly withdrew…But could not leave the confines of the dark tabernacle. Villefore did not seem to mind. He joined the outer ranks of black robed knights of the order. The brazen guard even mouthed the words of the chant soundlessly—eyes glazed, as if he too was capable of tasting the dark power crackling in the air.

Gaspar, by contrast, hoped he would never have cause to join that dark company. He shrank back into the shadows… shivering… hoping he remained unnoticed until all was completed. He served them yes… for years now; how could he not? Still, he had his own mind, and had every intention of keeping it.

Villefore gasped in soundless adulation when the glowing symbols appeared shimmering in the air over the prisoner's chest: they pulsed in response to the chant. However, when the chant died away, they did as well.

The prisoner was resistant to the anchor mark. The Master in his featureless black mask was not pleased. This subject would require more energy and effort than anticipated. He motioned the Dark robed Mediums into groups so they would stagger their chanting, sustaining the connection by force of will until he was finished. There would be less power for him to call upon. It made the work less precise. He hated that.

Many prisoners passed through the gates of the citadel… one in ten proved resistant to the mark. Gaspar did not know why or how this was so, but took some small comfort in the fact just the same. He surely had not been among that troublesome minority– no guard was. The memory made him rub absently at his chest.

A single wisp of dark power directed at him would awaken the invisible brand beneath his flesh and the mind numbing pain would bring him to his knees. Gaspar did not want to find out what the dark ones would do if they found he privately reveled in the notion there was a limit to their power—Even if it was beyond his ken.

----- 

After nearly a week of imprisonment, it came as a shock when the hood was removed. The torchlight dazzled the prisoner. He tried to flinch away instinctively but his body would not respond, neither would his eyes close to bring him once again into darkness.

A spectral figure loomed over him brandishing a dagger…his dagger. The prisoner recognized the perfection of its artistry, the dull gleam of emeralds in the hilt. This was his treasure normally kept in his belt nestled protectively against his backbone. "Truly a fine blade" The man behind the stark death's head whispered.

'Give it back! Its mine!' the prisoner wanted to cry. His lips barely moved and no sound came from them.

"I can feel your connection to it, even now when you've lost so much that link is still very strong." The voice smiled but the masked face did not. The specter laid the dagger gently on the prisoner's chest, where the glowing marks should have been and loosed power into it. The prisoner trembled as a sensation like fire and ice tore into his flesh. "You will open your mind to me." The figure commanded and the eerie chanting began again.

Mist swirled before the prisoner's unblinking eyes and he felt himself falling. "How is it you resist the darkness?" the voice directed "SHOW ME!" the command was an imperative that cast the prisoner's thoughts to the winds.


	5. Chapter 5: Memory

**Chapter 5: Memory**

_ i "Ramón de la Cruz blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh," the voice hailed the prisoner from the deepest places of his mind—grandfather's voice. _

_The memory was so vivid that the boy could smell the oiled leather as he plunged into the old caballero's embrace. His beloved Abuelo was a hard man. His face was seamed like the bare rocky pinnacle that watched over the town of Montefrío, with the same steadfast spirit as the man watched over its people. Grandfather's eyes shone green as the emeralds in the hilt of his sword._

_General Manuel De La Cruz was unyielding as the stone—it was a family trait. Nothing short of the hand of God had been able to force his ancestors from their hacienda in the Canary Isles. In 1492, when El Teide blew its top blanketing towns in soot and ash, and the molten rock devoured livestock and crops. That force of nature shaped the De la Cruz patriarchs and they brought that fiery spirit with them to the Spanish mainland._

_Four years after the family arrived in Spain, General De La Cruz and his brave Soldados flowed down the mountainsides of Granada. The raiders melted before his charge. The king, himself, spoke with respect when he named the first Don of Montefrío. _

"_Abuelo, I am not strong like my forefathers," the prisoner explained sadly. "I have let you down. I have tried, but I am broken. This will finish me." _

"_No niño." The spirit smiled, green eyes aglow with the light of eternity. "I know your heart. It is full and brimming with love of life. Have faith. It is not yet your time to join me in paraíso. What is broken can surely be re-forged strong as ever." /i _

The faceless master was not pleased. Maudlin memories held no value. He gripped the prisoner's mind and tugged. The body chained to stone arched and writhed as tendrils of agony lashed against his skull. The prisoner thought otherwise and tried to cling to the hope his grandfather's spirit had given, but the dream scattered like leaves before a gale.

"Show me your friends, reveal their secrets to me!" The command and the raw power behind it blocked out all other thought, the prisoner was made to relive the past as it happened…in the swirling, mists image formed.

_ i A white village nestled in the foothills of __Andalucia near the__ Cordoba border:__ The sound of hammer on steal rang out in the clear morning air. Three dark heads peered through the door of the forge where Domingo was already hard at work. Sparks, struck from the glowing steel, looked like stars drawn from the heavens to give life to the beautiful blade. "Can we help you with the bellows father?" Indi, the eldest of the three asked. _

"_I am __finished—__" the weapon smith smiled. "—at last, my masterwork." The smith plunged the steel into water. It hissed and sputtered sending out a cloud of steam. Like an intricate puzzle, Domingo carefully slid the diamond-studded hilt over the tang of the blade. Next, the strangely carved ivory grip, inlaid with gold. The delicately crafted pommel came last securing the whole. "Is it not beautiful?" the artist asked._

"_Very!" the young heirs, de la Vega and __de la Cruz, marveled._

"_It is more than the patron deserves." Domingo's son growled…"I do not like the looks of that man father, his eyes are very cold like a snake."_

"_Hijo, it is not about the patron, it is about the art." __Señor Domingo__ chided his son, and then turned his attention to the younger boys. "There may be some small trinkets around here for people I do like, two boys, for example, in celebration of their birthing days._

"_Me! me!" I am Nueve tomorrow!" Alejandro smiled; casting bright eyes around the cluttered workroom to find the surprise he suspected was hidden there. _

"_Look beneath that cloth," the proud artisan directed. The boy nearly dove into the pile of silks that had been dyed dark as midnight. The boy wriggling with delight and the artist laughed. "I have heard our young fox is becoming a fine horseman—a caballero needs a halter, spurs and whip. With these you will be able to tame even a tornado… And young Ramón…did you not just turn Ocho?" _

"_Yes sir," the boy answered, wide-eyed. He could not imagine owning anything so fine as the etched silver halter, spurs and lash the master artisan gifted his friend Alejandro. Then Domingo removed a velvet bundle from a high shelf—inside was the most beautiful dagger he had ever seen. _

"_The blade of a future Don." The weapon smith smiled. "May you use it to sharpen your quills, and open adoring letters from the ladies." The master craftsman intoned, smiling at the childish blush creeping across the boy's sun tanned cheeks. "But if you need to defend yourself, its keen edge will not let you down. I crafted this piece as a perfect companion to your __Abuelo's__ sword, which I know your father means for you to have when you are older. This then, is the first part of your birthright. Do not loose it my young one."_

"_I will keep it with me always, __Señor __Domingo, I promise." Young Ramón assured the man.__ /i _

In the world of darkness and stone, the Master ground his teeth in frustration—this was not what he was looking for. If only the mark had taken, this creature's mind would be fully open to him! It was so taxing to wade through random memories, probing to find the ones he was looking for. His predecessor may have made such things an art, shaping minds and bodies to his specifications, but for Mazarin it was all about power.

For all his boldness, he simply did not possess Richelieu's deep understanding of the dark power. He had no patience for this…and so his effectiveness was limited in both scope and degree. The dark knights were tiring. The energy fluctuated and his hold on the power was beginning to erode.

Mazarin focused his mind once more and dagger-like dove into the prisoner's memory. Power coursed through him as he leached tangled images from the prisoners mind finally glimpsing a face he recognized; with it was a name—Siroc. So, that is what _Schiavo_ calls himself now. "That's it!" he hissed, clinging to the fragment. "Show me my pet." The Spaniard's body convulsed, tugging against the chains that secured him to the table. The pain threatened to rend him, body from mind. At last, the prisoner complied.

_ i Ahhh, la Francia can surely cook… Pollo deliciouso. The Spanish expatriate marveled, sitting cross-legged atop a wall outside the hotel Planchett. It was too crowded and noisy to dine inside. The only reason he had attempted to get a room at this place at all was because he fancied the crossed swords on the sign. He had not expected the establishment to be overrun with royal guardsmen._

_A beautiful summer day and a finely roasted chicken…what could be better?" the young man mused—and was suddenly struck in the temple by a shuttlecōck, which then fell—plop—in his plate. Ramón frowned and looked around for the source of the projectile. Having often played Battadore in Spain with his sisters he knew how easily a shuttlecōck could go astray in the heat of the game. But it did not appear that had been the cause in this instance._

_Locating the 'who' responsible for interrupting his meal was easily accomplished—a starveling blond on the other side of the wall carried a Battadore-racquet in each hand. Discovering the 'How and why' behind the incident was somewhat more difficult. Why was this lad carrying both racquets? Ramon knew __Jeu de Volant, __the French variant of the game, __still required two players. __Where was the lad's partner? He wondered. Was this some bizarre accident or an intentional attack? _

_The Spanish expatriate was keenly aware that wit, properly employed, could diffuse a potentially dangerous situation. With that in mind he announced, "I generally prefer my foul without feathers, thank you." and playfully, tossed the birdie back to its owner. _

_Instead of catching the shuttlecōck on the racket, as anyone even mildly acquainted with the game would do, the youth flinched away letting it fall to the grass. "Please… I meant no harm… I must have misjudged the wind." The tussled youth was all wide eyes and apologies._

_The young Spaniard knew that stating the obvious sometimes helped clarify matters, without giving anything away. "I see you have two racquets there and a shuttlecōck. If you're planning to play __Jeu de Volant __you need a partner." He said, smiling broadly...a little too broadly, truth-be-told, but the scruffy newcomer didn't seem to notice. _

"_I wasn't… I don't… I've replaced the parchment in these racquets with strung gut and was trying to measure the tensile strength to ascertain what would be required to launch something substantially larger… a person for instance… into the air as easily as this—" he said bending stiffly to pick the round cork with feathers, sprouting from one side like the headdress of some savage. "—shuttlecōck?" the blond voiced the word carefully as if he'd never heard it before. _

_The Spaniard believed his French to be mostly proficient yet he only comprehended about half what the blond had said. Even so he felt safe drawing one conclusion. "You don't know how to play, do you?" he observed._

"_Non," the French boy answered, gazing intently at his toes. "Perhaps if I remove the feathers from the ball it will be less likely to stray? Or perhaps rig up some sort of net?"_

"_That is unnecessary. The game is actually, muy__ fácil,__" the dark haired youth volunteered. "Two people bat the __shuttlecōck back and forth as many times as they can without allowing it to hit the ground. I think those racquets still ought to work…the string might even be an improvement. __If you help me finish my dinner I'll introduce you to the game," he suggested—noting the French youth was far too thin._

"_You are certain it's not too much trouble; I mean if you wouldn't mind?" The blond faltered, sounding as if he hadn't a friend in the world. That was one condition the young Spaniard could not abide—especially since it was one so easily rectified. He slipped off the wall and held out his hand to the blond, "I am __Ramón Montalvo de la Cruz__… this is my first time to Paris."_

"_I'm Siroc. I work in the stables at the Musketeer Garrison. Captain Duval gave me these—" he said, lifting the rackets "—and told me to take the rest of the day off… I've never had a day off before." The blond finished shyly._

"_Oh, I've had lots of them! You've got to set your own pace when traversing the world. If you let me sleep in your stables, I'll tell you about all my adventures."__ /i _

"Finally, I am getting somewhere!" the Master exclaimed but his content was short lived. One of the dark knights let out a bone-chilling wail and keeled over—smoke rising from his robes. The chant faltered and the figures fell silent. The crackling aura of power faded until all that remained in the air was the tang of sulfur and brimstone.

"NOOO!" the Master yelled and struck the nearest man, and then the next and the next… "Continue! You must continue!" He urged, but they would not. The power was too unstable. Instead of directing a river, it was more akin to a storm surge at sea. More would die, unable to withstand the force of the flood. The Master was forced to admit the dark robed mediums were far too valuable to risk.

In rage Mazarin poured the excess power along the psychic bonds linked to his guards. Most obvious were Villefore and Gaspar. The first dropped to his knees and swooned, his eyes bright with pain… the second clutched knees to chest and rocked back and forth, buffeted by the force, others nearby felt the surge of power as well. Still the Master had not exhausted his personal reserves. He reached out into the night, grasping for the tattered lead that had formerly entrapped the object of his displeasure—his runaway pet.

0-o-o-0

Lieutenant de Leon could not put his finger on the precise reason he requested his commander post him as guard outside the massive doors to the dark tabernacle. Most, himself included, usually avoided that particular duty like plague. Perhaps it had something to do with the concern he's seen reflected in the female's when she spoke of the prisoner that had been taken the same day she had been. Or maybe it was the plaintive tone in her voice when she asked if there was anything he could do.

No sound could penetrate the massive carved doors at his back but the Lieutenant had more than an inkling of what was being done to the hapless prisoner inside. He had spoken truth; there was nothing anyone could do for one in the dark ones grip…why was he here then? He was a damn fool to let this stranger affect him and draw him into something that was clearly none of his concern. The guard berated himself soundly as he stood at his post.

Lost in his thoughts the Lieutenant was taken unaware by the lash of power that lanced past him and through him before it rolled out into the night. He felt the pain as strongly as Villefore and Gaspar had as they stood on the other side of the door facing their master. But he did not quake or buckle; instead, his eyes opened in surprise as memory stirred. "I am not Malcolm de Leon." He realized. "Not Mal… but Val; I am Valerian—a marked one, a cousin," he whispered, "the violet cousin." Then he did the unthinkable, he cast aside the uniform that identified him as property of Mazarin as if stung by it and left his post.

Recall came soft and slow. "I was called into being by the Master, not this pale imitator. I owe him no allegiance… The one that gave me life, Richelieu, is no more. Only shadows keep me in this place." Hasty footsteps carried him deep into the citadel crypts—to the home cavern where, as an eight-year-old boy, the violet cousin first woke to life at his Master's command.

This was the place the pretender found Valerian, a ragged thirteen year old, weeping on Chosen's pallet outside the Master's office… unable to comprehend that Richelieu was dead. But Val had been a unique creature even then. Mazarin used the dark power to subvert him, tricking him into abandoning his grief and his past here in the darkness along with his true colors.

Seven long years had passed. It was time to take them up once again. The deep wine-colored tabard, though small, felt comfortingly cool against his pale flesh. He had never truly been comfortable in the color of blood. Valerian slipped his belt and baldric over the tunic and raced through the hidden ways to the upper chambers: first to the young female with eyes like Amber, and then back down to freedom.

O

Queen Anne was exhausted, the i _fronde /i _was finished but the parliament was hardly contrite about the roll they had played in the recent uprising. She hated having to deal with that rabble on her own. But, she was the queen regent; what else could she do? She flopped down on her great canopied bed without bothering even to remove her slippers and stretched, cat like. "Long day?" a quiet voice asked from the shadows near the curtains. The queen's breath caught in her throat as she brought a milk white hand to her mouth in surprise. "Do you remember me?" Protector asked stepping into the timid halo of candlelight.

"Yes." Anne nodded. How could she not recognizing the woman that stood before her as the only child truly born from the seed of Louis XIII. If her sons had any connection with the house of bourbon at all, it was due entirely to the efforts of this enigmatic woman. Anne had been in labor and lost much blood. There was much concern that neither she nor the child would survive without help. Julien, the musketeer's medic, came to her in the night with this one by his side. The young woman not only chose to lay aside any intention of claiming her birthright, she shared her lifeblood with them, granting Anne enough strength to deliver the royal twins.

"Are you responsible for bringing my Philippe back to us?" Anne asked, wondering what strings she would attach to this latest miracle.

"One of many… The role I played was small and I do not indulge in blackmail for doing the right thing. I am the Protector. I only suggest that your minister should have been with you today. Perhaps you ought to consider sending word to Mazarin to that effect. There are still those crying for his exile. As his queen, it is within your power to insist he return to court to face their false charges or be a man—admit his crimes and take the council up on their suggestion— exiling himself for the good of France…I am told the Rhineland is very nice this time of year." Protector suggested off-handedly.

"I'll take it under advisement." The queen nodded already composing just such a letter in her mind."

"That is all I can ask," Protector said, knowing that if his eminence was in the capital embroiled with affairs of state he could not also be in the country causing trouble for her friends. The candle flickered and she slipped silently back into the shadows.

O


	6. Chapter 6: Exposed

**Chapter 6: Exposed**

**O**

The master's power found him. Siroc gave out a strangled cry in the night_–_waking not just Jacqueline and D'Artagnan who slept nearby, but the entire company.

The inventor's breathing came with difficulty and he clutched at his chest. His face was all but colorless and his eyes wide with panic, he gasped through clenched teeth.

Jacqueline cursed and fumbled to unbutton his shirt, hoping his breath would come easier unrestricted.

"What's wrong?" D'Artagnan asked none too happy to see his girlfriend pawing at his best friend.

"I don't know." She barked, "Get water… and light," then soothed, "shhh, shush, Siroc—peace." Pulling him (shirtless) into her lap. The inventor's eyelids fluttered as he fought to overcome the pain. His body trembled, but his flesh was hot to the touch. Jacqueline caressed his hair as a mother would and made soothing noises. Siroc had never had a mother, never been held in that fashion. If the inventor had not been the subject of such tremendous pain at the time, he likely would have relished the opportunity to study the primal reaction his distress awoke in the normally unobtrusive Jacqueline.

D'Artagnan hastily returned with a dripping towel in one hand and an over-full bucket in the other. "What are you…" he began, jealousy coloring his tone. But the words died on his tongue, for just then Alain stumbled up with a shuttered lamp. Even in the shrouded light, the silvered marks on Siroc's back and chest were quite plain.

"I'm sorry." Jacqueline whispered, "I'm so sorry." There was no doubt in her mind that the solitary inventor would not have wanted his secret exposed in this fashion.

"What… what…?" Words failed the young Gascon, who flopped cross-legged on the ground beside his friend. The water sloshed and Jacqueline saved it from spilling altogether. She also tugged the towel from D'Artagnan's nerveless fingers.

"How?" the legend's son asked, meekly—tentative fingers, touching the badly scored flesh.

"The lash, I'd imagine." Alain nodded. "I've seen such things before."

Jacqueline frowned in concentration as she daubed Siroc's face and arms with the damp towel. Her thoughts were frantic. "Come on, we don't know where Ramón is. I'm not about to loose you too—not to something I don't know how to fight."

Gaston St. Just approached, blinking in the dim light and tugging sleepily at a tuft of hair.

D'Artagnan snapped out of his shock and hastily draped his cape over Siroc's tortured shoulders preventing the tired lad and the rest of the company from seeing his friend's scars.

"He is going to be all right isn't he?" the young acrobat managed to ask through a yawn. "What was it, nightmares?"

The Gascon wondered if the boy might be correct; the memory of such marks must surely haunt Siroc's dreams… "Just give him some time," d'Artagnan told the youth and silently sent a prayer to the star littered expanse of the heavens.

Siroc's eyes were closed now, but he was not asleep. He unclenched his jaw and took a deep breath, held it for a few heartbeats before letting it out slowly_–_then repeated the process… almost meditatively.

"Can you hear me Siroc?" Jacqueline whispered. The inventor squeezed her hand gently in response but continued trying to regulate the pain along with his breathing—as his trainer instructed years ago. Finally, the fit released him. Doubtless, the Master's anger, or his power, was exhausted for the time being. Siroc sighed, opened his eyes and blinked up at his friends' expectant faces.

"Am I in your lap Jacqueline?" he asked somewhat disoriented by the gypsy skirt.

Relief washed over her. "Yes." She smiled.

Dart snorted. "Don't get used to it my friend—" taking Siroc's other hand in his and clasping it firmly "—and don't you scare us like that again!"

"No guarantees," Siroc said with a half-hearted-smile and used both their hands to leverage into a sitting position. "The worst is passed now I think."

"First the headaches, now this… I think you've got some explaining to do." The legend's son tried to send his friend a playful smile, but there was genuine fear and concern in his dark eyes.

Siroc leaned forward and tucked his knees onto his chest. Pulling the cape tight about his shoulders, he gazed into the dying embers of the campfire. "I suppose I do owe you that much, but do you think it could wait at least until morning?" he asked hopefully.

His companions nodded silently. D'Artagnan revived the fire and settled down beside Siroc. Alain and Gaston slipped back to their blankets as soon as it seemed the blond musketeer was out of danger, But Siroc, D'Artagnan, and Jacqueline watched the flames until dawn

**O**

It was hours past midnight and Corine was asleep when the shadowed figure slipped soundlessly into her cell. She woke to a hand over her mouth. "Hush." The Lieutenant whispered, "We go."

Her sleepy struggles ceased, "Where?" She regarded him in blatant astonishment. There was only one reason she could think of to explain the man's secrecy. "Escape?"

He nodded wordlessly and drew her into the hall. The young lieutenant carried no light; still, he led her with unfaltering steps through the maze of corridors. Time to go, his mind urged. We are…You are wanted elsewhere.

"I thought you said there was nothing you could do… that you were bound," Corine asked in a horse whisper.

"Things change." The guard mumbled, "This place was once my home." With a deft shrug, he pressed his shoulder against an apparent dead end and the wall slid away. "I have not forgotten the way," he declared. There was relief in his crystal blue eyes. Despite Mazarin's meddling, he was still the creature his Master designed him to be. His time as a common guard altered him. He sensed as much. How much, and in what ways, remained to be seen. Still, it was a great comfort to note that some characteristics remained incontrovertible. Firstly, Richelieu's creatures were uncanny fighters with unnatural reflexes, capable of seeing in almost total darkness. Secondly, they were created with perfect recall, incapable of forgetting unless they had been commanded to do so. That one surge of wild power rendered void all commands and restraints Mazarin laid on him so that the truth of his existence came flooding back.

The young lieutenant seemed lost in his thoughts. Corine tried to take advantage of his preoccupation to study the winding passageways. She trailed her hand along the wall, counting the viewing slits placed at regular intervals. She also took note of each counterbalanced doorway (similar to the one by which they had entered). Shortly, she realized that the deepening gloom and indistinguishable stonework made her attempts futile. She had no choice but to place her trust the guard. Though he had showed her some small measure of kindness, he had been one of the brigands imprisoning her here in the first place. Tugging gently on his arm, Cori asked, "Just where ARE you taking me, Lieutenant de Leon?"

The man sighed, "De Leon was the guard charged to keep you. I am no longer he. I am Valerian, or Val, if you please. Your guide…out. This way, please." There was a tone in his voice she had never noticed before—could it be… hope? Corine wondered as he gently directed her down a narrow twisted stair that descended ever deeper into the vast warren of crypts beneath the citadel.

"So, Monsieur Valerian, if you don't mind my asking, what precipitated this change?"

"Reckless use of power; it reminded me what I was, and freed me to become again that which I am." Val smiled. She saw only his eyes glinting in the darkness. "Enough talk. Make haste now so we are away before we are missed." He urged.

Corine nodded. She could barely see her hand before her eyes but he seemed to have no difficulty traversing this world of stone and darkness. He hurried her down more steps. The only change was the echo of rushing water. The sound increased in volume as they approached. Her heart beat fast. Could it be she was truly on her way toward freedom?

They rounded a corner and she stifled a cry and recoiled—golden eyes gleamed from the darkness, a form out of legend, a dragon. The guard laid a protective hand on her arm. Several heartbeats later, Cori felt a bit foolish noticing the beast was naught but the carved prow of a ship, adrift in a midnight river. Val lit two lanterns at the prow and helped her into the dark hulled barge and then expertly polled them away from the stone jetty and into flow. The wine dark water swirled and eddied. Shadowed stalactites and stalagmites suddenly loomed out from the darkness, jutting like teeth from the rough natural caverns.

There were many hazards in this unpredictable watercourse but Valerian piloted the vessel with uncommon skill. Corine was much relieved when they finally they reached the far pier. It was a short walk to the cave entrance. Bats scattered at their approach, chirping and squeaking annoyance as they went. She cringed into the guard's chest. He placed one arm awkwardly around her and led her unfailingly past this obstacle as he had all others. Dawn was just breaking when they emerged into verdant Forrest glade.

**O**

"D'Artagnan and I have been talking and we have decided that if you don't wish to tell us what's going on we're not going to press the matter, but we are concerned about you, just the same." Jacques announced handing the Siroc a bowl of warm porridge with which to break his fast.

The inventor took several bites of the fortifying oatmeal before responding to her pronouncement. It would be so easy to take the 'out' his companions offered. He could simply let the matter rest until his past became an issue once again: as it surely would—if the Master's interest in him continued unabated.

Siroc ran his fingers through his mussed hair. It was a nervous habit, true enough…but a fair sight better one, by his reckoning, than coiling a strip of leather tight about his wrist. Idly he wondered if his companions had taken note of his conscious effort resist that particular tendency. 'I'm free,' he breathed silently.

"I asked you to stay by my side, to keep an eye on me, and you have done so unquestioningly… I thank you for that. I must accept that it is no longer possible to keep my ordeal from you. As much as it pains me, you are concerned with good reason." Siroc took a deep breath and held it a few heartbeats…as he had done the night before. This time he attempted to marshal his resolve rather than his strength. This time he failed. "I-I will speak of it before the day is out," stammered the inventor quietly.

The legend's son patted his blond companion's shoulder amiably. "In your own time. We are at your side, regardless. Ramón is our big concern at present."

"True enough." Siroc nodded and resisted the urge to flinch away from his friend's touch.

O

Etienne, Anton and Andy were still trailing in Protector's wake as they left the capital far behind. The young ones could hardly imagine the numerous hidden passageways that riddled the walls of the royal palace. Hidden doorways and viewing slits had been carefully concealed by wall hangings and false walls: One even granted access to the throne room itself through the center of a great map. Getting into the queen's sleeping chamber had been child's play… and not just because Protector had been little more than a child when she first explored those passages. Louis and Philippe were struck speechless when their young friends from Berry suddenly emerged in their bed chamber from behind the stoic portrait of Louis III. The royal twins were quite enthralled in discovering the rest of the hidden halls, and knew such knowledge would prove invaluable. Louis and Philippe had been reluctant to see their friends continue their journey, but there was yet much to do. Protector had been firm in her decision to continue on.

The horses took them deep into the North Country. They ate without stopping and camped only when exhaustion threatened to overcome them. Often, the four were back into the saddle before the first fingers of dawn caressed the sky. Protector could feel the urgency of their journey and tried to convince the others of the necessity for speed.

"Just what is going on?" Etienne asked, nursing the last drops in his water flask. "This is a big country. How can we expect to find Dart and his friends?"

"I may be the heir to Richelieu's knowledge and power, but I am committed to fight the dark order he was a part of. They are causing trouble as usual; only this time, those we care about are pulled into the middle of it. I fear we won't arrive in time for the battle, but our friends are surely going to need our help in the aftermath.

O


	7. Chapter 7: Revealed

**Chapter 7: Revealed**

Valerian had but one horse and stubbornly refused to take another from the guardsman's paddock. Cori rode on a pillion behind his saddle. They turned away from the frightening shadow of the citadel and it quickly shrank from view. In the bright sunlight, it was easy to put the dark memories of imprisonment behind her and focus instead on the apple blossoms gracefully dancing and shedding petals in the fitful breeze.

"Where to, mademoiselle?" The stalwart warrior asked fussing idly with the horse's mane—he had no place to go. Eventually he would have to address the fact that Richelieu did not design his creatures to out live him. Valerian was likely the last of his kind… Was there even a place for one such as himself, outside Mazarin's influence and schemes? Val tried not to ponder such things, it made his chest ache in a way he found_…_disconcerting.

"Can you take me back to Picardy?" Corine suggested, "My brother and our troop will be looking for me. We're like family you see." Thinking of the cheery faces and bright gypsy wagons brought a smile unbidden to her lips.

"I will do my best." The guard agreed and with a subtle pressure of his knees, he turned the warhorse northward and urged the beast through the reaching ferns. It was unbelievable how much this trek contrasted with her previous—trussed up and slung unceremoniously across the back of a horse bolting at dizzying speeds.

This time she could appreciate the country: the fields of tender shoots of wheat and grain. Apple orchards stretched out, mile after mile, filling the air with soft pink petals. Cori could imagine the trees as they would be in several months, festooned with ripe red fruit. How nice it would have been to pluck several delectable specimens to snack upon as they rode, her hunger only made the beauty more poignant.

The trail led them up a chalky hillside and a dreamy vista spread out below them. She sighed contentedly gazing at smoke-blue hills and valleys pleasantly accented with red roofs and church spires in the distance. Even the air lay in a motionless amber haze, spiced delicately with wood smoke. "Beautiful," Corine breathed, as they stood poised on the crest of the hill.

Val nodded; wishing he viewed the world with her natural sense of wonder. But the Master's creatures were designed with a more pragmatic nature. "There will be guards in the villages," he warned quietly. "I do not know if they are on the lookout for us yet, but I would just as soon stay to the wilds and safely out of sight."

**O**

The search party was beginning to despair. The trail had grown cold and the dense wood closed about them, featureless. Siroc knelt by the trail. When he had last been in Berry he asked Chosen just how differed he was from Richelieu's creations and what separated them from i_normal_/i people. Chosen explained that just as Siroc's mind had been trained to explore the laws of nature and uncover deeper truth, Richelieu's own had been engineered to use those skills on a more practical level. He could learn to do so as well. "Read the world around you with the same intent you would study a manuscript." Chosen encouraged, "We are hunters; it is the nature the Master's art gave us. The earth speaks… be still, learn to hear it and the path will reveal itself to you."

The inventor was not accustomed to using his uncanny intellect in this fashion, but if ever there had been a need this was it. A dull ache blossomed in his skull—a concentration headache nothing more…he had gotten them frequently during his training. Siroc ignored the pain and reached out with his senses. He could feel rabbits reveling in the new spring and the trees slow waking from winters chill. A family of deer passed this way not too long ago. They had been drinking at the stream till a fox frightened them away. Siroc sighed; this was not the type of prey he sought.

He felt the breeze on his cheeks and listened to the wind in the leaves. Ramón had been unconscious. He had passed swiftly and left no trace of his personality within leagues of here. But there had been something: The confidence of the guards and the fatigue of the horses. Fear and confusion were there too; those were the emotions of the other prisoner, the gypsy girl. Siroc studied those fleeting impressions and came upon something more recent. Could it be the same personality doubling back on itself? This time it was accompanied by excitement and relief. Siroc's eyes shot open in surprise; the girl had somehow gotten free. He was certain of it! The blond hunter bolted to his feet—then froze.

Unku, the old Gypsy healer, regarded him, intensity in her ice blue eyes. All creatures (man and beast both) possess a measure of power, leftover perhaps from the dawn of time when the manifest God walked among his creations. Some few still have the gift to touch that power.

As the clan's i_drabardi_/i,she could not help but sense Siroc touch the magic. It bled off him like rain. If he were of her own kin she would not hesitate to name him a i_Drabarno_/i and see him trained in the use of his gift as she used her own. Males gifted by God with the ability to shape power were rare, but such things were not unheard of.

There was Sweet Marie's mate, Gryphon, and the other that ran the arena circuit with Artemis's daughter. What did he call himself? Brand, yes. Both were unnatural creatures it was true but they had good hearts and were always careful to be good stewards of God's rarer gifts. Perhaps this soft-spoken youth was kin to them, she reasoned. They, not she, ought to be the ones to train him.

The young man's intensity was almost painful. In her experience, all living things shield themselves naturally from prying minds. This one, it seemed, possessed nary a shred of mental shielding—it puzzled her. The only explanation she could imagine was that someone, possessing the power used it, not in accord with the principals of life but as a weapon, to forcibly strip the young man's defenses away. She mused at the violence inherent in such an act. Why would anyone do such a thing? To leave him exposed, a tool easy to influence, perhaps. Unku frowned and studied him a bit deeper.

i_"O ushalin zhala sar o kam mangela."_/i the old woman breathed in the language of her people i_"Devlesa araklam tume, May angle sar te merel kadi yag."_/i (The shadow moves as the sun commands. It is with God that we found you before this fire burns out.)

She expected rage, barely contained destructive tendencies. What she found, were deep scars and barely healing wounds. Something dark threatened his carefully maintained balance. The pain would continue for a while but the worst had passed. Still there was instability there, deep yearning and fear.

The wise woman used a little of the power to strengthen the wounds in his mind, her silent prayers enveloping him like a cocoon. But she was all too aware how little experience she had with such deep injuries. But she had heard tales of one that did—Protector.

With a word in the ancient tongue and a wave of her parchment-like hand, she released Siroc, gifting him with the appropriate words to get the others moving in the direction his vision led.

**O**

Valerian and Corine made their way along the winding path beside the stream that carved this picturesque valley from rose-colored sandstone. "I left home to seek my fortune when I was sixteen." Corine chatted amiably at the somewhat taciturn ex-guardsman. "My brother Gaston was only twelve, all arms and legs growing like a weed, simply scraping together enough to feed him was putting worry lines on momma's brow not to mention thoughts of coming up with a dowry for me. So we decided it was best for everyone involved if we went off on our own." She explained.

"Did they… miss you? Family does, or so I've been told." Val asked quietly. Creations of the master had no family… but they did have each other. Amber, Jade, Tan Red and himself were designed to be Richileu's perfect chosen – they failed, proving process was still in need of refinement. Despite their defects, or perhaps because of them, Val cared for the others—doubtless his Master had listed that weakness alongside his other flaws. It didn't seem right when the master did finally succeed his perfect one… his Chosen, cared for them too naming them cousins–family.

Corine answered Val's question, oblivious to his wandering thoughts. "Mother cried, but father had been ill for nearly two years—consumption they thought. That is why we had to dismiss all our servants and sell nearly every stitch of finery we had. It was best we were away. We sent coin when we could but things have improved now. Momma re-married after father passed—a merchant called Paul Moriac Now she's got a new babe to dote onSybil. She's ever so precious."

"I've never had cause to be around infants." Valerian shifted his weight in the saddle; a telltale signal that he was uncomfortable. The conversation was getting beyond his depth. By his reckoning, he had never even been a child, let alone have cause to be around them.

Cori had come to trust this strange man, but she longed to find one she could talk to about all manner of things… She had passion for learning since she was a child. Her father encouraged her to read as many books as she could get her hands on; poetry, history, philosophy, religion, alchemy, music, medicine, and mathematics. She loved them all and despised the pervasive notion that it was inappropriate for a woman to understand, let alone care about, such things. When father grew ill and finances tightened her books and lessons had been the first things to go.

But the gypsies had not minded her "unseemly intelligence". They welcomed her and Gaston to travel alongside their clan, provided they learned the way of the Rom. She could even teach reading, writing and figures to their young ones—girls and boys bothAs if conjured by her very thoughts, a flash of color drew her attention. Boxy wagons sidled along the upper slope of the vale—not just any wagons—these were unmistakably i_Vardo_./i Cori let out a whoop, startling her stalwart guide. "Ride! Ride!" she urged pointing to the gypsy caravan in the distance.

Valerian dug his heels and urged his warhorse up the steep walls of the vale. If it were possible to reunite with his blade brothers and sisters he would permit nothing to detain him…He reasoned Corine must feel the same. They galloped at an amazing speed and bore down on the brightly colored wanderers. Cori slipped off the saddle and ran into her brother's arms. He tossed her into the air in an acrobat's greeting and swung her around with undisguised glee.

Val watched from the saddle in silent awe. Were his kin living, their reunion would not have been so… undisciplined… expressive… loud. The most intimate expression of loyalty and camaraderie among blade-bound was the clasping of forearms. In his short lifetime there had been few indeed that Lieutenant de Leon would trust to share the simple bond of blade-brother. The loss had been palpable when Richelieu saw fit to assign Amber, Jade, Tan, Rust, Red, and himself to various captains and keepers and send them out into the world. Duty had brought him into contact with Chosen's Black guard from time to time in the intervening years, but Valerian—who had been the Violet cousin—had no connection with any of his unnatural kin since the Master's death. Wouldn't he have felt it if the others of the Master's creatures had died alongside Richelieu as they had been meant to?

O

Jacqueline and D'Artagnan both noticed their blond companion had been acting mildly stranger than usual…both suspected it was his promise to reveal his secret before the day was out that put that distant gleam in his eyes. But as they had promised Siroc days before—they continued to keep a close eye on him…wary that another spate of pain could seize him without a moment's notice.

When Siroc wondered languidly over to the rider who hastened Corine's return, they quickly moved to join him.

"Sir?" Siroc whispered—snapping Valerian from his revere.

The Guard's eyes widened with surprise. "Sirra?" This was one youth Valerian would not be embarrassed to clasp forearms with. He dismounted hastily and did so. The blond returned the near-familial gesture, stunned to see the young lieutenant who had acted as his trainer during his dark past. The Master cultivated the young slave's mind. Malcolm De Leon had been responsible for exercising the rest of him. Unused muscles atrophy…that was not permitted to one of his nature. And so it was Siroc that had learned the art of fisticuffs, which served him so well against Alain Dontés only days before.

"Have you been sent for me?" Siroc asked in barely a whisper, knowing he would not stand a chance against the guard who had been his only ally in the darkness.

"No, I am free," Val explained hastily, understanding the young man's fear. "You have made him exceptionally angry though. I am sure you have felt as much. Know he is seeking other means of retrieving you."

"He's… Oh God No… Ramón!" The ex-slave gasped, color draining from his face. He stumbled back a few paces in absolute shock bumping into D'Artagnan's chest.

"Are you alright?" The other musketeer asked.

"No… Not in the least." The frantic blond faltered. "I should have told you all everything years ago…now my fears have cost Ramón everything. It is all my fault!"

Jacqueline dreaded to voice the question, but someone had to. "He's_… _he's… Is he D-dead?"

"Worse," Val whispered. "The Dark Order has him."

Silent tears traced their way across Siroc's cheeks but his eyes were expressionless. "My fault," he whispered. For all his time as a slave of the citadel, there was one place that filled him with cold unreasoning terror—the sanctum of the Black Tabernacle.

Siroc fought to center himself. The very thought of returning to that sinister chamber froze him to the core. How was he to rescue Ramón? He took a deep breath and Chosen's words came back to him; _i_ "_If you choose to go back, do not expect to be well received. Remember the chains that once bound you. Do not go alone …take stout companions raised in the light. Go prepared. Go armed. Though the darkness has no secrets from you, your friends do not know the night. Take many torches to illumine their way. Those of the dark fear the light, take strength in that. You are free. Choose to live free from this day on. And if they try to take you back by force then, feel free to beat the living tar out of them." /i_

Sound advice to be sure, but it still seemed an impossible task. Surely, D'Artagnan and Jacqueline qualified as 'stouthearted companions, raised in the light'. Siroc knew they would do anything to save Ramón. Still he wondered whether his secret would cost him their trust, forever.


	8. Chapter 8: Consequences

**Chapter 8: Consequences**

The reticent blond knew he had to tell his companions ALL, there was no other way. He took a deep breath but the words just would not come. Siroc drew his sword—immediately attracting the attention of the other three. With a few flicks of his wrist, he used the tip to trace a basic design the in the hard packed soil beside the road: the symbol used by order of the black tabernacle.

They had encountered the icon in the form of a black tattoo several times over the past year. Duval made it clear he suspected the mark was the calling card of a secret order. The captain believed this secret order had attempted to subvert the government, destroy the musketeers and worse. But there was never any proof, so it remained a subject of much bafflement. D'Artagnan recognized the symbol first, "Isn't that…" he started. That brief opening was all Siroc needed to find his voice. Even so, it was little more than a whisper and D'Artagnan and Jacqueline leaned in to hear.

"The Obelisk is the sign of the Order of the Black Tabernacle—its knights are worse than Duval suspects. I am a witness. I know it to be fact, not conjecture. They want to destroy us and all we stand for. And now they have Ramón."

"You knew all this time?" Jacqueline interrupted, eyes flashing with confusion. But she kept her head and there was no visible sign of the mild feeling of betrayal that lay cold in her gut. "Continue," she encouraged.

"Jacques, I told you I was a slave," Siroc said, unable to look his friends in the eye. "That is the symbol of my Master. I was unable to say anything at first… Even in the garrison, I was not far from the reach of his dark arts… He used the pain to call me back to him. I have been free for more than a year… but it is only these past few months he has tried in earnest to get me back."

Siroc's mouth felt as if he had been eating tallow and it was difficult to swallow. His anguished mind screamed, 'I was bound; forced to serve against my will and inclination! The obelisk's power made me his tool and my Master used me.' In his heart though, Siroc knew this was no excuse. His friends had the right to know the truth. Painfully, he continued.

"D'Artagnan, your uncle Emris was held by Richelieu in a similar fashion. Though he was able to break free, it shattered your father's trust– I did not think I could bear that. The first time I traveled with you to Berry, I was desperate to meet your uncle because I suspected he could free me as well. With Chosen's guidance, Emris severed the connection linking me to my Master. I hoped that by resisting the summons I could forget what I had been and what I had done. To my great disgrace, I kept my secret hidden, hoping to preserve your good regard a while longer. I let my fear keep me bound, as surely, as if I was still a slave.

"Chosen?" Valerian asked surprised. "He lives?!" Awe and something more, colored the guard's voice. "That must be the secret the false one sought to rend from your friend." He explained, "The reason you no longer heed his call."

"And Ramón knows nothing about it!" The inventor said in an anguished hiss. "The Master will keep probing and twisting… attempting to uncover what is not there… there is no time to waste, even now I fear there may not be much of our friend left to save."

Siroc pushed his terror to the farthest reaches of his mind and willed his knees to cease their traitorous trembling. "I must ride. I do not ask you to trust or follow me again—but Ramón is doomed unless we act now."

"I am with you… i _Cousin," /i _ Valerian answered.

"Cousin?" D'Artagnan asked, and Siroc for his part was no less stunned. Both knew that the term used in this fashion denoted more than mere familial relationship. To D'Artagnan it meant this Guard identified Siroc as one of the Blade-bound created and trained in the manor of the Elite of Berry. Siroc was surprised because had never suspected the lieutenant was like Chosen, shaped by Richelieu's dark arts as an ultimate weapon. Ether way there was no time at present to discuss the declaration.

Siroc nearly fumbled in his haste to get his stallion saddled. "If you will come, I am glad to have you with us. We have no time!"

Jacqueline emerged from the nearest wagon, once more in her guise of Jacques le Pont, testing her sore shoulder carefully "All set," she announced, "What are you waiting for?"

"Wait for me!" Gaston called, bolting from one of the wagons.

"This is not your fight lad. Your sister is safe. Your people need you." Siroc frowned.

"Then take these—" the youth handed him a roll of cloth tied in sections like a gypsy woman's braid – each section held a measure of flash powder "—Unku says this might be of some use. Healing your friend's hurts may be beyond her power, but she has sent for help that will be here when you return."

"Thank you." Siroc was relieved the youth did not fight to join the assault, and accepted what the boy offered. "Also thank the i Drabardi /i for her foresight." He nodded and the four thundered off toward the citadel…toward the knights of the black order and the horrors of their tabernacle.

O

Word had come from the capital. The queen mother demanded that Mazarin set aside 'his other plans', and act as chaperon for her and both precocious boys. He could not refuse. What was worse, he was forced to abide that ever smirking de' Batz…the Cardinal wondered for the millionth time just what was THAT man hiding. It would be a challenge to break such a man…but he was no musketeer cadet—the great D'Artagnan was too public a figure. A legend must be discredited first, before the Order could even consider spiriting him off to the Citadel…that wretch, Duval, was the same. Ah, but it would prove to be such classic entertainment—worlds better than watching the flamboyant king and his upstart brother exhibit their skill at archery.

The day wore on. "Your majesty I have told you my opinion on this manner of diversion." Mazarin used his best 'wise confidant' tone with the queen mother. "They are far too young to be learning the arts of war…would you not prefer to keep such a heavy burden from your children as long as possible?"

"Your eminence can you not see they are enjoying themselves…and after that nasty Fronde business, I can not help but think master D'Artagnan's instruction is all the more appropriate. I expect them to begin learning tactics in the spring as well as continue in the noble arts of sword, pistol and bow. My late husband was quite proficient by the time he was twelve, I see no reason why my sons should be any different."

Mazarin fought not to grind his teeth together. "Yes of course your majesty…you were quite wise to send Louis into hiding with young Philippe at St. Germain, but you should have informed me…I realize it may have seemed as if I was busy with the senate and that unruly peasant rabble but I that did not mean I was incapable of protecting him. He is in danger if I do not know his whereabouts at all times.

"As it turns out my boys were quite secure during their outing." Anne smirked 'the boys' were correct…it was 'fun' to keep secrets from the one the boys secretly called 'marzipan'. Seeing his face flush that particular shade of violet made her feel like a schoolgirl with Duchess Shevero again, pulling pranks on the tutor.

Young Philippe shot his arrow clean through the target. "Oh good shot dear!" Anne cheered. She suspected that as the two aged, Philippe would don the crown more and more frequently; he cut a kingly figure.

Louis sulked, but in his brother's guise it almost seemed endearing. For once he didn't need to act like a proud king; he could just be Lew…and Lew realized the praise lavished upon a young king was often empty. His skill was mediocre at best. He'd have to step up his game to compete with his brother. Charles helped him adjust his stance. The leather arm-guard the musketeer fashioned worked perfectly. The bowstring did not even nip his royal arm (such a distinctive bruise would set the twins apart and spoil their plan). His shot struck the target a-hands-breath from his twin's.

Anne studied her sons carefully. When pretending to be Prince Philippe, Louis emphasized his own, somewhat Fae, characteristics. Today he wore a bright yellow neckerchief of silk and doeskin gloves_—_taken from my dressing chamber no doubt. Anne easily recognized them as being very like those Leo had given her during their awkward courtship. She sighed…this was not the first time her firstborn borrowed her things without asking.

If the brothers continued in this fashion, Anne feared Phillip's name would become inextricably tied to the foppish persona Louis was earning for him. Likewise, Philippe's moodier reserve was already becoming synonymous with kingly virtue. She foresaw a time when each would be uncomfortable in their own shoes because they had spent so much time in the other's.

"I am a great Yeoman mother. Perhaps I shall shoot a bear." Philippe said in a very good imitation of his Royal brother's haughty boasts.

"You know, my boy, bears are quite fierce." de' Batz cautioned. Anne wondered how anyone could miss the love shining in Charles's dark eyes. She doubted the emotion could become greater if she were to confirm his suspicions that their brief union had not been barren and her marriage bed had. Anne sighed – her secret… a little while longer at least. Still she smiled.

"Ah, captain." Philippe grinned. "I am fierce as well. Did you not know that I am the sun king? All the world will one day bask in my light." He sounded so confident; the queen wondered how much was feigned. Both boys had been rather reluctant to go into much detail about what life had been like for her second born. Philippe spoke of his "time in obscurity" and "imprisonment" somewhat casually but she had seen the haunted look in his eyes. It was good to see him so happy.

"I do not doubt you are fierce, dear brother," Lew said, and sent a waif-like smile toward the Cardinal. "But beware; sometimes it is the crafty beasts one must be most wary of. In light or darkness, study your quarry well before you strike." For an instant Anne forgot it was her Louis beneath that carefully mussed brown wig. Oh they were good at this charade of theirs.

Mazarin was quickly growing to distrust the young prince, newly come to court. Philippe's guileless smile and flippant manner had already won him many friends—surprisingly few of them sycophants. Despite his affectation of Fae behavior, there was a wary gleam in his eyes. Mazarin imagined the boy reserved i _that look_ /i specifically for pawns and operatives of the dark order. It unnerved the powerful Cardinal that, whatever their disguise, the prince seemed always able to pick them out. Mazarin hoped that was one trait the strange prince would not pass on to his satisfyingly malleable elder brother.

O

The gypsies set up camp in a clearing beside the road where they bid good luck to the departing rescue team. Their brightly painted wagons had not yet drawn the attention of the locals. The clan wasn't sure how long that would last. Still, it seemed this trek was used mainly in late summer by farmers moving their flocks to pastures higher in the hills. They should have several months before the nearer meadows were mown clean by voracious herds.

"An inventor you say?" Corine mused, twirling the fringe of silky hair at the nape of her neck. She had little opportunity to meet the noble musketeers since her miraculous return breathed new urgency in their mission to rescue their companion.

"He knew about the flash powder… and he gave Alain a bloody nose… in an honest fight. That hasn't happened in years," her brother explained undisguised admiration coloring his words.

"What say the _ i drabardi?" /i _ The wise woman, Unku, offered, as she tossed some powder into the remains of last night's cook fire. A plume of blue-green smoke began to drift lazily skyward. i "_Kay zhala I suv shay zhala wi o thav."_ /i 

"Where the needle goes, surely the thread will follow… What is that supposed to mean?" Gaston asked. Romani proverbs were never his strong suit.

The old woman only smiled and answered with another cryptic gypsy truism i _"Kon del tut o nai shai dela tut wi o vast"_ /i 

"Oh that one I know!" Corine smiled. "He who willingly gives you one finger will also give you the whole hand. It means You like him—this Siroc—even if he is i _Gadje_." /i 

"You i _Gadje._ /i too little sister." The woman snorted, knowing she need not repeat i _'Gadje with Gadje… Rom with Rom'._ /i Gypsy and non-gypsy rarely mix. And as much as she loved those of the troop…they were not also of the clan. And now she must invite more outsiders into their fellowship…

Unku had called them because she knew the Musketeer would need a stronger magic than that of the i _Drabardi._ /i To her knowledge, She would have to look beyond the i _Natsia_ /i (gypsy nation) to the out-clan… The only ones she had heard of gifted that strongly were the Chosen…and the Protector. If directed, they would surely come to the aid of one, perhaps two of their own.

-o-o-o-

Andy was the first to notice the oddly colored smoke drifting above the treetops. "Momma look!" She pointed to the signal. Etienne and Anton were just as excited. They knew the signal of the Roma; both had spent their childhood years traveling with their parents among the painted Vardo. Etienne's father, Gryphon, had been raised by the clan known as 'the children of the wind,' as was Anton's mother, Sweet Marie. Their clan rarely traveled this far north, but Rom were Rom and helped one another where ever they happened to be. It was not difficult to follow the signal to its source.

O


	9. Chapter 9: Assault

**Chapter 9: Assault **

The dark tabernacle was empty: The black flames had been extinguished and the dark robed knights were sent back to their haunts—back to their lives—till the Master required their unnatural talents once more. It was said that some were not even aware of their abilities, or the service they rendered to the order.

Once they passed beyond the shadow of the citadel a mist descended on their minds, shrouding what they had witnessed…and been a part of. They lived, worked and labored under the notion that occasional lapses of memory were perfectly normal and nothing to concern family and friends.

The Master's Guard did not share that convenient malady.

"Woo whoo—Anybody home?" François Villefore smiled, waving a taunting hand over the prisoner's face. "Nope." He laughed.

"Must you to that?" Gaspar sighed, grimly studying the prisoner's blood slick manacles and raw wrists. He would not willingly meet that vacant gaze—dark eyes, bereft of light and understanding. The mere thought chilled him to the bone. What made Villefore so bold? He wondered. Insanity_–_was the only answer that came readily to mind.

"It can't hear me. Why should you care?" the other guard sneered.

"It" Gaspar's thoughts echoed… yes, thinking of this –thing_–_ as a creature … a lump of flesh … even a corps made it less frightening than having to admit this was –he was—or at least he had been, a thinking, reasoning, feeling, individual. "Do we have souls?" Gaspar wondered aloud.

"I've heard the word." Villefore snorted, "I'll warrant you've got no better understanding of the concept than I do."

"Perhaps." Gaspar frowned, wondering if such things even mattered. He took the cloth hood from the bucket in which it had been soaking and wrung out the oily liquid before pulling it once more over the prisoner's head.

Villefore clasped the thick leather collar around prisoner's neck, tightened it, and sealed the hood in place with a turn of the key.

OOO

"As I told you, getting in is easy." Val explained, "This way was Richelieu's secret. Only his creatures have knowledge to navigate it safely. We will have surprise on our side." Valerian skillfully polled the dark ship once more through the underground river. "It is trying to leave again that will kill us. The guard will have discovered the maiden is missing. The punishment of those deemed responsible will burn fresh in the guards memory… they will not lapse in their duty."

Jacques turned his words over in her mind as she watched the swirling waters. 'Richelieu's secret'… 'His creatures' Where had she heard of such things? She frowned and then remembered while journeying with the King to Berry their young guide, Andie, had spoken to her of such things. What was the term she had used? "Are you… blade-bound?" Jacqueline asked finally putting the pieces together.

The man at the tiller straightened – clearly surprised. "Something more: I am _ i __Cousin__ /i _ The Master made us to train and command the blade-bound. How do you know of such things? There are none of our brethren among the king's guard."

"None but me," Siroc whispered.

"What?" D'Artagnan and Jacques asked together.

"I was bound, not Richelieu but to Mazarin, the first of a new generation." Siroc admitted, wondering if he would ever be able to look his friends in the eye again. Perhaps it would be best if he sacrificed his life in this rescue. Maybe then, he could expunge his soul of shame.

Jacques brows knit together as she struggled to understand. For the present she would have to lay aside Siroc's confirmation that Mazarin was—had been—his Master, and the leader of the dark order. It was simply too much for her to process at the moment. That left what little she knew about the nature of the blade bound. "How can you be like them, Siroc? The Andie told me extreme conditioning and discipline made the blade-bound unquestioningly loyal: You question everything. It's all you ever do!"

The inventor took a deep breath "I was not meant to be an Elite Guard, like the lieutenant here and the others. I was the Master's i _Shavivo_… /i his pet. He brought problems to me, I gave him solutions. He made me what I am. My earliest memories begin up there." The ex-slave nodded to the landing and winding stairs that led into the bowels of the citadel. The inventor turned to the lieutenant. "You meant a lot to me you know." He admitted to his former trainer. "You taught me to stay grounded. I know it was no insult when you called me Sirra. That is why I took the name Siroc. It was the only name I ever knew, the only one I wasn't ashamed of," he whispered, unable to meet his friend's gaze, fearful of the horror and mistrust he would find there.

O

The foursome moved through the twisted catacombs concealed within the walls of the keep. Each had a sword in one hand and an unlit torch in the other. Both Valerian and Siroc had uncommon dark vision and could lead the other two through the maze of passages to the upper levels. All too quickly, they would be forced to leave the secret ways behind and that was where the real danger lay.

In the heart of the citadel was their friend… between themselves and their objective was countless highly trained guards, many of whom did not possess the ability to discern the difference between duty and life. For them to fail in one was to forfeit both. Until quite recently, Valerian had been no different and he regretted the necessity of crossing blades with his own kind.

Tar sputtered as torches blazed wildly, illumining pinched battle after pinched battle. The 'invaders' tore into the forces of the enemy. It was not pretty – real battle rarely was. Both sides used the capricious twists and turns of the halls to dodge musket shot and lay in ambush. Steel rang out as both forces converged… blood red tunic erupted in flames as its wearer lunged too close. The cries of wounded and dying were not alien in this world of uncaring stone. More than once, a group of guardsmen would stumble, surprised, into the midst of the fray, unaware that the battle din was, at all, out of the ordinary.

From time to time, Valerian would call out commands to his former comrades. Some heeded him, turned their coat and joined the opposition. Others chose to lay down their weapons, and knelt, arms across their chest in submission. They would not fight; neither would they aid the enemy. The musketeer let them be—Mazarin's more fanatical forces did not. Their steadfast loyalty often earned them naught but a coupe-de-grace. In the world Mazarin created, the only solution to a crisis of conscience was a slit throat.

Resistance diminished the closer they got to their objective. No guard would violate that sanctum without the Master's leave. The raiding party numbered almost two-dozen by the time they reached their objective. Everyone was bruised, bleeding and breathing hard. The group ground to a halt, finding a brief respite in the eye of the storm.

Jacqueline and D'Artagnan were panting as hard as the rest. They relished the opportunity to lean against the cold stone and catch their breath. To them, this appeared nothing more than an alcove; a moderately defendable spot before a grotesquely carved set of doors.

"We… we can not enter." The lieutenant told the musketeers when they faced that ominous black portal.

"I would not ask it." Siroc assured them. "We need you to guard our backs." He respected Valerian and those of the guard who chose to fight and die at his side in opposition to Mazarin's commands. The ex-slave knew what it cost them to follow this far. The guard had been conditioned to fear this place and that compulsion was not easy to resist. Siroc should know. The thought of facing the demons of this place still filled him with dread and he had tasted freedom far longer than they had.

"This is the place then?" D'Artagnan asked, oblivious to the fear in the guardsmen's eyes. He was more than prepared to open the large door by its wrought iron pull.

Siroc nodded; all color drained from his face.

Jacques took the other door pull and together she and D'Artagnan unsealed the arched portal—twice the height of a man.

O

The grinding hinges of the great door were the last sound Gaspar expected to hear. It never boded well. True enough the Master had instructed them to look after the prisoner, but if something called him back prematurely from the capital—someone would pay.

"W-What?" he barely had time to stammer before the armed combatants charged in.

Villefore was less surprised. He turned slowly and regarded the new comers as would a spider in his web. With a stolen word of power the sconces lining the wall flared to life; the unnatural flame coiled and hissed—purple, violet and green. It gave little heat and stank of sulfur. "Welcome home Shavivo_." _The Master's disciple sneered, arms outstretched in mock greeting.

Siroc stiffened it seemed his legs were cast in lead and his heart hammered against his breastbone as if it were a bird seeking escape from an especially confining cage. "I am free!" his mind screamed, but terror undermined resistance and stole his voice away.

"Nothing to say? We've got someone simply dying to have you here." Villefore taunted… With a flick of his gauntleted hand the candles ringing the dark alter also flared to life—Illuminating Ramón's inert form.

"You beast! What have you done to him?" Jacques raged and charged toward the haughty man, sword raised.

"You've brought company—how nice." The corrupt guard smirked and sent a wave of crushing power at the she-musketeer. The heavy weight descended on her and it was all Jacques could do to raise her cheek from the flagstone stone.

"Try me," D'Artagnan growled every muscle as tight as a coiled spring. Then at the last moment the legend's son checked his charge and hurled his Florentine dagger at the evil man's chest instead. The blade took the man by surprise; he barely deflected it with his wrist. It still scored on his shoulder.

"Not nice." Villefore hissed and swatted D'Artagnan into the wall as easily as one would a fly.


	10. Chapter 10: Escape

**Chapter 10: Escape**

"LET… THEM… GO… François," Siroc commanded, each word hissed through gritted teeth permitted him take … one… step… closer. Locomotion took every ounce of concentration. Still, he moved under his own power—unlike his last visit to this nightmare chamber when the marionette-like precision of the Master's compulsion had driven him.

"You would presume to order me?" Villefore laughed, But Siroc's ability to resist, even a little, gave him pause—there was fear behind the man's haughty expression.

The other guard stood gaping goggle-eyed…almost fish-like. It was clear Gaspar never dreamed his companion at all capable of calling the dark power, let alone safely harnessing it. If there were any place capable of shielding him from the power Villefore unleashed, the other guard would surely have ensconced himself there and nothing short of the Master's call would dislodge him.

Siroc read the situation in an instant and smiled to himself. "Beware Villefore—last I heard you were not counted among the Knights of the Order. The Master does NOT share. You tread dangerous ground; the dark power is fickle and does not deal kindly with meddlers."

"You will find I am more than a match for you and your puny friends, Schiavo." Villefore boasted.

Siroc could feel the power closing around him once more, pricking at his hair like static. François sought to use one of the Master's favorite diversions to leach the air from his lungs. The power affected him only as much as he permitted it to. As long as he remembered he was free—the power could not hold him as it had when he was a slave.

Siroc forced himself to smile. His stance wordlessly declared, "Do your worst—I do not care.'

François Villefore craved attention. Siroc knew this well (counted on it in fact). The best way to incite him to rage was simply to turn your attention elsewhere.

So Siroc addressed the tallow-haired guard "I am free Gaspar. Aren't you interested to learn how this could be? I know the Master is—I don't think the knowledge will help him—you might find it useful though." Four … more … steps. Siroc was nearly at the foot of the dark altar now. The ex-slave steeled himself. It did not appear Ramón was breathing, Siroc tried to convince himself it was a trick of the dim light.

True to form, Villefore never allowed the other guard an opportunity to respond. "You will reveal all you know SLAVE!" He roared, "The Master will take much pleasure in stripping your mind; just as he did to your friend." François snatched the jeweled dagger off Ramón's chest with a threatening gesture, as if he prepared to slit the Spaniard's throat.

"I THINK NOT!" Siroc lunged, grabbing the still sheathed blade and shoved the Master's disciple backward onto the dais where the dark lord did his conjuring. Next the ex-slave did the unthinkable…he tossed the coil of flash powder… encircling the obsidian obelisk as easily as he would the stake in a horseshoe toss. Black flame ignited the charge instantly.

o-o-o-o

The resulting explosion rocked the temple Siroc protected his friend's body with his own—the power Villefore loosed tore about the room like a three tailed lash. The light was blinding and there was a sound like rushing wind followed by a wailing the likes of which even the most hardened torturers of the citadel had never heard before. Dust rained down from the vaulted ceiling of the chamber and Siroc feared the ancient stone would follow. It was clearly time to leave!

"I meant what I said Maurice—you CAN come with us, others of the guard have." Siroc shouted to the bedazzled guard as he wrested the keys to Ramón's shackles from his nerveless fingers.

"You … you know my name?" the rangy guard mumbled stunned. (Siroc read his lips, as nothing else was possible in the din) Clearly, it seemed a lifetime since anyone referred to the man as anything but Gaspar.

Siroc nodded, "I've studied your files, come with us. Someone is going to pay for this—I'd just as soon it was him and not you." Francois Villefore's body twitched and convulsed on the dais before the still smoking talisman. Siroc knew it was far too optimistic to believe the either the vile man or the icon of dark power had been injured beyond repair. But, the first would surely bear the imprint of his illicit use of the second till the end his days.

"I… I don't think I can." Gaspar trembled uncontrollably as if suddenly taken by fever.

Siroc struggled to lift Ramón off the obsidian table, D'Artagnan and Jacques, suddenly free of the dark power, struggled to their feet and ran to ease his burden. "Maurice!" the ex-slave called over his shoulder; "Please!" Siroc hoped the man could hear past the ringing in his ears.

Maurice Gaspar stood tall for an instant… proud. "I can't take what you offer, but maybe I can somehow earn it. Go now." The man had made his choice.

Siroc nodded sadly and followed the others into the hall, the great-carved doors hung askew on twisted hinges, Valerian and his men marveled they were still alive.

Many of the populace of the citadel felt the backlash of what occurred in the tabernacle. The mighty stone keep trembled… Some prisoners found themselves suddenly free when the doors to their cells burst. They quickly loosed the others. It was no surprise when the captives rallied against their tormentors. Some guard lay helpless in their barracks clutching their chest in agony… the dark brand that tied them to their Master flaring suddenly to life. Others won free of the control fled in terror as if the hounds of hell were on their heels.

Chaos reigned.

The four who triggered the uprising and those with them met only haphazard resistance as they fought their way to the courtyard. After neutralizing the guard in the barbican, D'Artagnan mangled the gears of drawbridge and portcullis. Jacques and Siroc loaded Ramón into a coach. Siroc used the beautiful jeweled dagger he had taken from Villefore to cut the hood from his companion's head.

As soon as D'Artagnan joined them, Valerian leapt into the driver's seat and they rattled across the drawbridge. His men rode as their duty prescribed, beside the coach on their own mounts as honor guard. In this fashion, the audacious invaders made good their escape from the citadel knowing they had dealt the Dark Order a blow, from which they would not soon recover.

O

Cardinal Mazarin sat on the veranda taking tea with the queen. Philippe and Louis were playing on the croquet lawn with a red-collared monkey. "Through the hoop Giulio and mind the mallet." Prince Philippe scolded gently. The beast jabbered and made faces the boys crowed with delight.

Mazarin frowned sullenly, why had they insisted the ignorant simian bare HIS given name? In France he was known as Jules Mazarin but he'd been born Gulio Mazarini. Every time they called, he had to resist the urge to turn.

"You are so silly Giulio, marmalade in your hair again?"

"Gulio, Play nice and don't bite."

"Gulio, keep your paws to yourself and don't play with my crown."

Imagine the frustration! A Cardinal has better things to do with his time. The Queen's confessions were increasingly brief and disjointed – she was hiding something…and that was not a good sign. He needed to do something to strengthen his hold on her.

"I am concerned your majesty. You know you can confide anything in me. I am your spiritual guide, please." He encouraged, giving his best 'trust me' smile. A thin tendril of power reinforced the effect. The Queen was a useful tool but his ability to influence her was still annoyingly erratic. Richelieu's journals frequently cautioned that subtlety was paramount in managing royalty.

"Marzipan?" the queen smiled offering him a plate of delicately shaped almond candies.

"No," the man waved absently, distracted only a moment inwardly examining the chords of dark power at his command. "I feel there is something come between us," He frowned. "Is it de Batz?" The Queen stiffened at the mention of the name, confirming his suspicions. Mazarin tried not to sneer, "He is a hound after power. Have I not warned you of his ambition? It hurts me when you…" _–_The words barely passed his lips when piercing agony shot suddenly through the Cardinal's chest and down his arm. The cup slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the stone. Maids scurried about to clean the mess.

Lightning exploded behind his eyes draining the color from his face. 'What devilry is this?!' his mind cried. He had never experienced the pain he so regularly subjected his minions too; and never bothered to catalog their symptoms else he would have understood what was happening. As it was, fear of the unknown made things decidedly worse.

There was a rushing in his ears and his vision grayed for a few moments. Spasm after Spasm wracked Mazarin body. It was the only indication he had had in years that a beating heart still resided within his twisted innards.

"Your Eminence, are you well?" Anne's voice sounded far away "Shall I call the doctor?" her eyes shone bright with concern. Her mind spun. It was all very well to be highhanded from time to time when one is queen…but not where matters of health were concerned. And truthfully, what would she have done with that dreadful fronde business without this man by her side. Lord knew her dear Charles was no diplomat or statesmen. He would always meet trouble face to face at sword point.

When the backlash of power ebbed Mazarin found himself bundled off to his chambers. The queen's physician would not permit him any visitors or strenuous activities till his humors were in line. To insure this, the doctor administered purgatives and sudorifics of the most violent kind in addition the cardinal had his blood let several times a day. All in all Mazarin felt truly miserable for some days before he could convince the man to let him retire to the country to recover.

The dark Master had used the obelisk's power to stave off illness many times before… little did he realize that it could drain power from him in similar fashion to ease its own hurts. The dark lord would find no peace or rest in his citadel this time, and would be a long time recovering.


	11. Chapter 11: Redeemed

**Chapter 11: Redeemed**

The splendid carriage jostled along the rutted road. The three musketeers were oblivious to the rural countryside passing swiftly outside the boxy confines of their stolen carriage. "He does not look good," Jacques gave voice to the obvious. It was the only thing that kept her from tears. Ramón, their exuberant companion, ever cheerful, optimistic almost to a fault, dreamer, poet, and incurable romantic, was no more. His swarthy face seemed gray, coffee-colored eyes, unfocused_–_lifeless.

D'Artagnan examined his friend's body. He'd lost weight, that was true. But except for the chafing on his wrists and ankles and some bruising, there was not a mark on him. "I just don't understand," the legend's son whispered, perplexed. His mind raged. 'Too late? How could we be too late? After everything we went through! Everything we did! How?'

Since removing that loathsome cloth mask, Siroc had not dared take his sensitive fingers from Ramón's jugular vein. The Spaniard's pulse was thready—so weak as to be barely perceptible—but it was there. The inventor feared if he relaxed, even for an instant, he would loose it and the poet would slip from this world without even a whisper. That, he could not bear. "You are safe. We've got you Ramón. We're not letting you go!" the ex-slave told his first real friend. "Come back to us."

Siroc was still unable to make eye contact with his other companions and did not try to converse with them. By his reckoning, this was his fault. If Ramón died, it would be no different than if he had done the deed himself. This was a preposterous notion of course. The others would have told him as much, if they had had an inkling of the dire thoughts which fluttered impotently about in the closet of his inventor's mind.

"Any change?" Jacques asked some time later. It took Siroc several heartbeats to register the fact that she was addressing him. Then he found he could only shake his head disconsolately.

"What happened to him? What did they do?" D'Artagnan whispered, unnerved by the Spaniard's unfocused gaze.

"You are asking me?" Siroc whispered; throat dry.

"You're the only one that knows the kind of things that went on in those depths," the Gascon explained, not unkindly. Then he asked, "What did that vile creature mean when he said they'd stripped Ramón's mind?"

Siroc's face grew pale, "Villefore is notorious for his boasts. Let us hope this was one of them." The ex-slave whispered slipping into an even deeper fit of depression. He could not voice his belief that if the guard spoke truth then the Ramón they knew and cared for would be gone forever—lost in the crimson mist.

O

Few things could have startled the musketeers more than having the irrepressible Etienne de Ruse and Anton Porthos open the door of the carriage seconds after it lurched to a halt in the gypsy camp. "How is he?" both boys asked together.

D'Artagnan recovered first, perhaps because as he was growing accustomed to having Berry cousins appear when least expected. "Not Good," the Gascon answered.

"Is Andie here?" Jacques asked. When last she had encountered these two nephews of the famed musketeers, they had been guides alongside the mariner girl.

"Of course," Anton announced. "Protector as well."

Not only had Andie told the female musketeer about the blade-bound she also mentioned that while she could ease nightmares, her mother, Protector, possessed greater skills to shape and heal the mind. The musketeer-maiden suspected that the girl's uncanny skill was perhaps the only hope their Spanish friend had.

"God be praised!" Siroc sighed. He knew Protector as Richelieu's heir—the one who broke the power of the Cardinal that was—making it possible to free those like himself from bondage. "If anyone can bring Ramón back they can."

"That's why we're here, cousin." Andie smiled, opening the door on the opposite side of the carriage. "I can tell all three of you have taken damage. Let us carry him out," the lithe lass suggested.

In truth, the stalwart musketeers had been so concerned with the well-being of their companion that they had not noticed the severity of their own wounds. Now that the blond girl called attention to the fact, realization dawned, painfully. With the strength and gentleness characteristic of a Porthos', young Anton lifted Ramón from the carriage and quickly bore him away. Etienne held out his hand to help Jacqueline alight from the carriage and escorted her to the healer's tent. Not to be outdone in matters of gallantry by her companions Andie offered her arm likewise to D'Artagnan. The legend's son felt a bit odd taking the hand of a girl half his age… especially in front of Jacqueline. But he'd lost quite a bit of blood and was somewhat lightheaded. As it turned out he was grateful for the added support as he clambered awkwardly into one of the gipsy wagons where his wounds could be treated.

Left momentarily alone, Siroc reflected how none of his friends would have been injured if not for his secrets… Ramón would not have been abducted or been in need of rescuing… The three would have been safe and sound in the capital if only… What? If only he had never met them? The tenor of that thought did not ring true even in his dreadful melancholy. "What am I doing?" he muttered.

"What indeed!" Protector asked with a stern look on her face as she took a seat beside him in the carriage.

Siroc's first reaction was to salute this woman—something he had never even considered doing for his king. But with Protector, whether because of her bearing or his nature, it took concentrated effort to refrain from doing so. "How is he?" Siroc asked. His stance demanded, 'Why aren't you with him?'

"Ramón will be fine. Even Andie can ease him through the last of his nightmares. His grasp of the truth and indomitable spirit has shielded him thus far. It is YOU, I have come to see, and you I am most worried about. I felt your distress leagues outside of Paris. In that condition you would have surely fallen prey to Mazarin. I saw to it that he was needed in the palace and came to find you as quickly as I could.

Siroc was confused. "But I_–_I resisted. I didn't go when I was called… I stood up to Villefore, I even hurt the Obelisk."

"Self effort isn't enough, my dear lad. You are in pain and shouting it to the heavens. Mazarin needs the dark powers to decipher thoughts. I do not. We are connected by our very nature. I suspect that is what finally brought Valerian out of the shadows. You are tied to him as you are to me."

"The lieutenant… He used to use strips of cloth to bind my wrists so the chain wouldn't…." The ex-slave began nervously; his mind spun, threatening to plunge him once more into dire memories of his past. Protector quieted him with a thought. CALM_–_ the gentle command eased his frayed psyche. She touched her finger to his lips.

That brief contact stilled Siroc's frantic thoughts, permitting him to see what his mind had been doing to him. Obsessing over the past and reliving the pain, kept him bound to it. "I'm free," the inventor whispered.

"You ARE free," she confirmed with a slow smile. The words seemed to make it so.

"I need to live free; habits die hard. Chosen warned me," Siroc admitted. "But it is just SO DIFFICULT!"

"Then why are you so determined to hide your past and carry the burden yourself? If not for D'Artagnan, Jacqueline and Ramón, I would never have let you leave Berry. In a lot of ways, you are still a child. You NEED people to care for you. They do, deeply. Don't you understand that you can't loose that kind of regard?"

"I don't deserve it," Siroc said, unable to meet her intense gaze.

"No one does—At least not all the time. We ALL do stupid things. Your friends are not perfect. You must know that. I mean, one of them IS a D'Artagnan." She smiled playfully, and then continued, "True relationships require hope and grace and they are also a matter of love. Those who seek power to make themselves Master of others are ignorant of love and consider hope and grace weaknesses. But that does not mean we must share that flaw. We can learn to love, experience grace and benefit from hope. It just takes a bit of effort. Your friends will understand. Do not give up on them.

"That's why Villefore could use the power to hurt them isn't it." Siroc frowned. "I doubted my freedom and he used my fear to attack them. The power was unstable, because I am."

"Not '_am' _mylad, '_was'_," Protector corrected. "I trust you'll be on the lookout and guard against such things in the future. Let your friends strengthen you, don't weaken them. When you act, do so with unity and there is nothing you can not overcome."

"I'll do my best, and I'll be more open with them about what is bothering me too, I promise."

"A good start. Now, let's see if we can lend Ramón some strength, to bring him back to himself as well, shall we?"


	12. Chapter 12: Lessons of Loss and Love

**Chapter 12: Lessons of Loss and Love **

The prisoner was lost, whirling in an endless miasma of red, hearing nothing but the blood pumping in his ears. Once there had been more to existence than this limbo, but concepts of what and when were hazy at best. There was no pain here, of that he was certain, unlike…that other place. From time to time images resolved themselves in the abyss… A face… almond shaped eyes and long black braids… _ i Madre? Hermana? /i _ He wondered. Like the images, the words held no meaning. The visage swirled away and was lost into the haze. A quill and roll of parchment, something dark steaming in a chipped cup, these incomprehensible fragments were all that were left of the life he once knew.

Something tugged at him, gently at first and then more insistent. He did not have the heart to resist it; he remembered vaguely that resistance hurt. "Face the darkness, it is all right to remember," a voice whispered. "You are safe now. We will catch you before you fall."

The vision lasted longer this time. _ i The boy with the emerald hilted dagger cried out in panic. The man that had given it to him lay in a pool of blood outside the forge. The two most precious things the artisan had ever made lay nearby, abandoned on the grass__–__ the beautiful sword…and his only son. The older boy's face was marred by cruel slashes and he mumbled in the delirium_ of _shock 'my father… killed?? six-fingers … I'll find you … prepare to die!' the young man was babbling in his grief._ _There was nothing anyone could do to soothe him. _

_The shadow of violence and pain descended upon peaceful Montefrío this would be the first and only a taste of what was to come. Months passed. The scarred young man increasingly had no time for the friends of his youth. His destiny, as he saw it, was to travel the world, consumed by two passions: the first was to become a great swordsman, to wield the sword his father had made, the second was to find the murderer, to avenge his father's death. One day young Inigo simply packed up his belongings and left without a word to anyone. The pain of his leaving clung to the prisoner's heart._

_Loss touched the child's life again, all too soon. The prisoner remembered how forlorn it felt to watch sails, like the wings of a bird, carry his second best friend away. His spirit weakened as the ship diminished against the horizon. Alejandro, the fox, sailed with his father to the new world, taking his halter spurs and whip with him to tame the wilds of the colonies. Letters were rare, and they spoke of young De la Vega's intention to become a great Conquistador like his father, his ambition to catch and tame a beautiful native girl, his wild promises to build her a fine hacienda, raise fat babies, and live a good long life. __ /i _

Three friends, once inseparable, were worlds apart, and the distance could only grow greater with time. The feeling of emptiness threatened to consume him; he could not wall out the void any longer. "We will catch you, REMEMBER," the voice told him firmly before vision swallowed the prisoner once more.

_ i High atop the Pass of the Wolf, the vale_ _LasPeñas de los Gitanos spread out before him. The prisoner did not recall what matter brought him to this place; only that he had come seeking his parents. He saw the white blanket spread out; like an isle adrift in the lush green grass. He had felt relief at first and ran pêle-mêle down the hillside. A picnic had been spread out, the plates were laid. His parents lie together as if they were asleep, but there was no waking them. _

_Uncle Fernando called it suicide, and said they died un-shriven, leaving the family nearly bankrupt. He refused to permit them burial in the family crypt next to Abuelo and Abuela. How could uncle judge what truly happened if he had not been present?_ _And when had Fernando gotten Abuelo's sword from Papá?_

_The boy had been furious…but he WAS just a boy, what did he know?_

_He knew Papá nearly stepped on a snake, years before, while his brother was in was in Madrid. After that he brought the sword everywhere… even when going to relieve himself in the middle of the night. _

_He knew that Madre never used bed linen for a Picnic, not when Abuela's embroidered blanket hid grass stains so well. _

_He knew picnic fare was Andalusi chicken sliced with celery, cucumber, and tomato …never fish. Everyone knows seafood does not do well in the sun. _

_Even the location was wrong. LasPeñas de los Gitanos is a holy place among the Roma. Mamma may have lost her place among her people when she chosen to marry an outsider… Still she always respected their traditions, and made sure the people she cared about did too._

_Lastly, and most importantly his parents would never… NEVER take their own lives. It was FACT, everything had been staged to look otherwise, but it didn't change the truth. Still, no one believed a child._

_For years he was subject to his uncle's capricious temper. He tried to do what was asked of him but deep inside he raged. This was his house! His father had been the eldest male as was he. He wasn't a child any longer. He was no slave. He was the rightful Don of Montefreo. His parents disserved justice. Finally he could stand it no longer and challenged his uncle. For this insolence uncle Nando stripped him of everything… his birthright… his name… /i _

_ i I am alone!_ /i The prisoner cried…but light still flickered somewhere in the abyss.

"You ARE NOT alone!" the voice said drawing the frightened boy away from the memory of his parents bodies… away from the dark uncle who sent his family away. Gabriela, Carlotta, Consuela, Gitana, Rosita and Marco…all gone, and he knew not where. Only Lucinda cared enough to think of him on his birthday, but letters were rare and Luci had begun a family of her own now. Would she forget him as his childhood friends, Montoya and de la Vega, had? He would miss her poetry and those brief birthday messages; especially since his last present from her had been destroyed…he couldn't remember how.

Alone, alone, alone… the word echoed. The nameless prisoner shuddered in the void.

"Times change, but you are not alone." the voice was determined and the command insistent. "REMEMBER!"

Treasured memories buried deep inside awoke.

Who was the eldest son born to Don Miguel de la Cruz and Esperanza Montalvo de la Cruz? Was it true his Uncle cruelly disowned him stealing, his name and altering his destiny? The princes of the Isle de la Cruz, his ancestors, did not loose their identity when the great volcano drove them to the mainland. True he would never be a noble Don of Spain, like papa and Abuelo were… but that didn't mean he was nameless. He was the first in a new line, and so he had chosen to add 'Francisco' to his name, the first de la Cruz of France. It was a badge of honor; he survived alone in this strange country.

"Have you forgotten the blond who knows everything but how to play?" the voice asked. "What of him? How about the soft-spoken sword, with the flashing eyes? You remember that one, surely. What of the son who fears being eclipsed by his father's legend? Have you no thought for any of those three?"

Siroc! Jacques! D'Artagnan! How could he forget his fine French i _compañeros? /i _How could he forget himself?"I AM Ramón… Montalvo… Francesco… de la Cruz!" the young man smiled and his eyes fluttered open.

The three musketeers crowded around him expectantly. Their excited words blurred together as they hugged him and one another with joyful release. "Ramón? Are you all right? Do you remember what happened?" We really beat the tar out of the ones that took you. Say something. Are you well? Are you hungry?" Ramón could not tell who had said what but they were here beside him—together safe, more or less.

Ramón blinked slowly and fought to bring them into focus. All three looked as if they had survived a war. D'Artagnan's head was wrapped and his arm was in a sling. Siroc could barely stand and looked like his face had been hit with a frying pan. Jacques looked as bad as the others, swathed in bandages, neck to navel. That last gave the dazed Spaniard pause.

Ramón frowned at Jacques. "You know, you look better in a dress than Siroc does…Am I still dreaming, or have you always been a woman?" he asked, his voice a fraction stronger.

"Yes Ramón, I have." Jacqueline admitted gleefully, and it didn't concern her a bit that he knew her secret. Their Ramón was back! It would be a while before he recovered fully from his ordeal but he would recover.

"We nearly lost you, my friend." Siroc squeezed his hand gently.

"I feared the i _Rojo Vacío_ /i would devour me," the Spaniard admitted with a shudder.

Siroc nodded, tears sparkling in his eyes. "But it did not… my friend, it did not." This time he would hold nothing back. "I know the Red Void Ramón speaks of; imagine an all-consuming nothingness where existence is reduced to a single spark alone in the mist. My first memories are of that void it was all I knew before my Master called me to life. I came from it with nothing…not even a name.

"The masked one who tormented me." Ramón swallowed hard. "He wanted me to… He called you his pet."

"His _ i _ _Schiavo /i _yes."Siroc confirmed… noting this was first time he'd been able to voice the word without cringing inside._"_ The power he used to hurt you shaped me. My entire life experience spans all of five years.

"Five years?" Jacqueline marveled. "I imagine that is one reason you're so full of curiosity, just like Duval's nephew Andre."

Siroc nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps that was why he felt such kinship with the boy. "The first year of my life was spent in intensive training in the citadel, but there is much books can't teach."

"How long had you been free when we met?" Ramón wondered, recalling the skinny youth with the badminton rackets who seemed so very alone.

"I left the citadel the previous spring, but I was not free. My Master 'let me loose on the world' to study and to learn. I'd already set his stables on fire three times before he loosed me. I imagine he would enjoy the irony of Duval having to deal with the inconvenience of my experiments." The inventor shrugged, "I had a relatively long leash and considerable latitude about what I did. Still the dark power was an ever-present reminder of my slavery. He could compel me to return whenever he wanted me, and did so more than once."

"Liana," Ramon whispered. Thought of the wild-eyed enchantress still made his heart beat fast. "She summoned the children to her… She snared us all in her spell, turned us against one another. Were you called in the same fashion little Andre and the others were?"

"My master's control was more comprehensive, but there were similarities, yes." Siroc nodded. "I spent most of my life in thrall to the Master's power and freedom was still very new to me. The pain she caused, though short lived, was all too familiar." The others had only been disoriented for a matter of moments after Duval's niece, Mimou, shattered the shell amulet that focused the woman's dark power. It had taken Siroc far longer to accept the enchantress's touch was well and truly gone from his mind.

"It must have been awful," Jacqueline whispered, disentangling her fingers from Ramón's hair long enough to squeeze the inventor's arm comfortingly.

Siroc took solace in the gesture and continued his painful confession. "Richelieu used similar measures with Emris and Chosen, using them as spies among the musketeer. Protector broke his control and taught them to be free. On our first trip to Berry, they helped me do the same.

You see, no one can serve two masters. Mazarin's power is but perversion of a greater Truth. Everything that drove me to uncover the mysteries of nature were a longing to discover that fact. I've been free for sometime, but only recently did the Master try to get me back in earnest. When the pain didn't force me back to his side, he tried to use Ramón to find out why."

"I didn't tell them anything," The Spaniard assured his friend.

"I know you didn't Ramón, not even his dark arts could break a spirit as strong as yours." Siroc smiled. "It's one of the things I admire most about you. I am not so strong. Returning to the citadel was unbelievably hard. I lost my faith for a while and Villefore took advantage of that chink in my armor. It allowed him to hurt Jacques and D'Artagnan…I am so sorry. It's my fault," the blond said, tearing up as he recalled seeing his friends tossed about like leaves in the wind.

"It is all right, Siroc. I was plenty terrified and vulnerable all on my own," D'Artagnan assured him. "I've been around blade-bound most of my life— i _morbleu_ /i . I'm almost considered part of the family. But I NEVER dreamed that anyone could do the types of things Villefore did. If you had not been able to shake his control, ALL of us would have been half-dead when Mazarin returned to enslave us."

"Mazarin!" Roman exclaimed. "He's the one who… He led them. I'm sure of it. I remember his voice…and that horrible obelisk." The thought made him shiver. "Was I really prisoner of the mysterious order Duval has been trying so hard to uncover?"

"They are called the Knights of the Black Tabernacle," Siroc admitted quietly. "And yes, you were in the sanctum itself when we found you." Speaking about such things helped the inventor see recent events with clarity rather than as a horrific nightmare, colored by past pain. I really am Free. He smiled to himself…and looked around meeting his companion's gaze. There was no condemnation in their eyes only support and acceptance; Siroc marveled, learning for himself the very thing that which protected Ramón as he retreated in the deepest places of his mind.

They were family He, Ramón, Jacqueline and Dart. Despite past, despite mistakes…despite doubts and mistrust, they cared for and about each other regardless. He was not alone. Together they could overcome anything.

** Epilogue **

"Hello?" A quiet voice intruded on Siroc's thoughts, "Its time your bandages were changed."

The inventor blinked and nearly fell into a pair of luminous hazel eyes. These were set jewel-like in an impishly freckled face and accented by a quirky smile. Ringlets of splendid red-gold framed the whole.

"You must be Siroc. I'm Corine." The vision smiled. "I'll take you, first." By his breathless expression, she reasoned the blond musketeer must have been feeling faint. The wound above his knee had bled profusely. A musket shot, close range too. From the look of the powder burns he was lucky it missed the bone. She'd seen men lose limbs from such a shot, but this should heal cleanly.

She cleaned the wound and checked the stitches. Then, she bound it tightly, first with bandages then on a whim with her bright blue sash. Next, she used her own silk kerchief to dab gently at the deep cuts on his shoulder and cheek. Once free of dried blood, Corine confirmed that the lesser wounds would heal on their own without sutchers. And of course, the black eye Alain had given him days earlier had already begun to fade to a dull yellow with only a hint of green across the cheekbone. Truthfully, it gave the blond a rakish air she found rather alluring. "All finished." She smiled.

The inventor had been nearly oblivious to her ministrations. His mind ground slowly, like that clockwork mouse he made months ago. (It was never quite right after D'Artagnan dropped it in Jacques coffee.) The graceful maiden cared for his friends' wounds as well. Finally, recognition dawned. "You are Gaston's sister, the one responsible for the **Barium Nitrate** flash powder?"

"Yes, I am Corine St Just," she confirmed and offered him her arm. "Dinner is nearly ready. Do you feel well enough to join the others?"

Siroc nodded mutely, musing that when he had last been among the gypsies he'd been so preoccupied with seeing Lieutenant De Leon (Valerian) again, that he had overlooked this beauty riding with him. Secretly, the inventor was gratified at the opportunity to rectify the situation—now that Ramón's safety was no longer a question.

Perhaps, Siroc wondered, over the next few days he may have the opportunity to speak to the maiden about fireworks… and other things. But for now…keep it simple, mustn't go too far too fast. Right? He reasoned. "Is there any more i _Pliashka_ /i " the inventor asked, remembering the delicately seasoned meat he'd so enjoyed during his last visit to the gypsy camp."

The girl smiled sweetly. "There may be some cooling on the coals…it is quite a delicacy, but I must admit, I am surprised you like it. Most non-gypsies can't get used to the idea of eating hedgehog. My brother won't even touch it."

"Hedgehog?!"

-----

New Story in the works: b **Reconciliation** /b   
What happens when the mischievous royal twins conspire to get the legendary musketeers D'Artagnan and Aramis to reconcile after years of estrangement. What happens when civil war once again threatens France? What happens when Richelieu's ultimate soldiers are let loose on the enemy? Will France ever be the same?


End file.
